Bâhukhazâd II: Rebirth
by xElisabeth
Summary: The One Ring has been found, the Fellowship has departed for Mount Doom – and Ardhoniel of Imladris can hide no longer. Forced to face her troubles and herself, she has to decide once and for all. To hold on to the past or to let go. To be brave. To live. Continues where The Lost Years left off. Mix of the books, movies, and some OCness.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Welcome back all to the sequel to _Bâhukhazâd_. This story has been long in the making and even longer in the thinking, but in between work and social obligations I have found little time to write recently. As such, I have gotten less far in the actual writing than I wished. However, I do have the first 10 chapters thought out, so at least that part is over. **

**As for this story, I must say I have never actually written a sequel before, so I hope I will be able to write something that will be captivating in itself as well as be true to the original story. In all honesty, I have less of clear thought-out plan than I did for _Bâhukhazâd_ , except that I just could not imagine Ardhoniel living through the War of the Ring without somehow getting involved. So there you have it. **

**I hope you enjoy this first chapter. If you do, don't forget to let me know!**

* * *

 **Chapter one: Split decisions and self-preservation**

When the low drum of many heavy feet falling on the forest floor in synchrony reached her ears, Ardhoniel of Imladris was about ready to write it off as a hallucination of her tired mind. She had set off from the Rohirric settlement of Walstow four days ago, where she had left behind her best friend and a grieving family, and had not had a wink of sleep ever since. These were dark times, and the roads had become unsafe even during the day when Orcs would lay low. Any moment of inattention, no matter how short, could cost one their life. Fortunately, however, the Elleth had managed to avoid any trouble. Thus far, that is.

The drumming had started as a low background noise, so low in fact that she could hardly say when exactly she had first started hearing it. However, it steadily became louder, until her heart picked up its rapid beat and she surveyed her surroundings anxiously.

And then it had stopped. Or rather, it fell apart in a cacophony of single steps, each with their own rhythm and sound. Far worse however, was the unmistakable sound of clashing metal that soon joined in and caused her to freeze up in her saddle. Her sensitive Elven ears now also picked up on the grunts and cries of pain, and it was a small mercy that so far all of them had sounded inhuman. As she well knew, however, the luck of the other party could only last so long – and in the end, someone was bound to get hurt. Or worse.

Quite unconsciously, she had brought her horse to a halt, grey eyes staring off into the thicket of the forest as the youngest daughter of Lord Elrond contemplated what to do. From the sounds of it, there were many of the creatures – and in daytime too – and her logical (and terrified) mind knew that she alone would not be able to turn the tide if the battle would take a turn for the worse. Besides, she continued to reason to herself, this was not her fight. Should she have to risk her life for people she did not even know?

Her answer came in the form of a resounding horn, its call desperate as it echoed through the forest. Although it was unlike anything she had ever heard, the call brought her back to another time, another battle – another fight which had not been hers to fight. Was she truly to abandon these people, whoever they were, to their fates?

Another second passed in which Ardhoniel sat frozen on Nimloth, righteousness battling cowardice, before, quite on their own accord it seemed, her hands pulled at the reins and she forced her mount in the direction of the battle.

As she shot through the forest, catching flashes of great, black creatures between the trees, the horn sounded again, even more urgent this time. And then she broke over a hill – and that is when she saw him. Encircled by Orcs, the size of which she had never seen, swinging his sword around him in a last attempt at defense as two arrows already protruded from his chest. As he reached for his horn again, the Elleth spotted one of the creatures a little ways to her right, slowly drawing its black bow, arrow cocked as it took aim for what would surely be the finishing shot.

And suddenly she was moving again, the powerful horse beneath her dashing through the moving bodies, her own eyes fixed on her target as she tried to reach for her sword but found it to be out of reach. Were it not for the adrenaline coursing through her body, for the knowledge that if she did not succeed this man would surely die, she may have faltered here, the lack of a plan triggering a sense of self-preservation. But she didn't falter, didn't slow down her horse, and when she came within striking distance, Ardhoniel used all of her power to kick herself off of the mount – and right onto the bow-wielding creature.

Her momentum caused both of them to roll onto the forest floor, but did much less in terms of damage than it would have to a regular Orc. In fact, when this particular creature got back to his feet, he seemed little worse for wear – and only angered by her interruption.

For a moment, she stood frozen as the creature advanced on her, a crude black sword now in its hand. Then, Ardhoniel did the only logical thing that is left to do when one is facing down an opponent without a weapon of one's own. She bolted.

As she skidded down the small hill, she frantically looked around herself for Nimloth, but figured that the animal must have fled from the scene in a sense of self-preservation – a sense that she, apparently, lacked. Although she was not concerned the animal would have gone too far away, it did mean that she remained rather unarmed. Moreover, in her distraction, it seemed she had led the great Orc exactly where it had wanted to go; to the injured Man who by this time had sunk to his knees.

With one glance at him, Ardhoniel set her jaw, pulling out the small golden-hilted dagger from her boot as she turned around to face her foe. She was all the defence this Man had left – and she would not leave him to his fate.

The Orc – or Uruk-hai, as she would soon learn – was not impressed by her choice of weapon, and its mouth pulled into a menacing grin as he advanced on her. Ardhoniel, in turn, raised the dagger in front of her, arm shaking and eyes wide in terror but nevertheless refusing to back down. She readied herself for the first swing, hoping she could somehow dodge the wicked black blade long enough to deal some damage of her own.

But her defence soon proved to be unnecessary, for just like that, the creature's head rolled off of his shoulders, coming to a stop near her feet – and revealing a familiar dark-haired Man behind it.

'Aragorn?' She questioned incredulously, but the address was lost on the Dúnedan, for as soon as the Orc was killed, he rushed past her and towards the wounded Man. Two more figures came sprinting by, one tall and clad in forest greens and a smaller figure in browns and reds. As she noticed them, Ardhoniel too noticed in surprise that during her show-down – if it could even be called such – much of the other creatures had been taken care off. All of the others had strangely chosen to retreat, drawing from the forest like poison from a wound.

That returned her thoughts to her original purpose in engaging the great Orc, and she turned around to find Aragorn, and the two figures she had seen pass moments before, kneeled in front of the Man.

'Forgive me, I did not see… I have failed you all,' the wounded Man said, his voice coloured with shame. As she stepped up, Ardhoniel noticed the silver tree embroidered on his outer tunic – and the blood that stained the fabric. Both arrows had sunk deeply into his flesh and though it appeared they had missed his vital organs at least, both wounds were bleeding profusely. He was surely to die if nothing was done.

'I am a Healer,' she blurted out suddenly, at the same time as the fact occurred to her in her own mind. The conversation between the two Men fell quiet, and Aragorn turned to her.

' _You can heal him?_ ' He asked her in Sindarin. ' _His wounds are grave._ '

' _I can try_ ,' Ardhoniel relented. ' _Without medical attention he is sure to die._ ' Her eyes shifted from the grey-eyed Dúnedan's to those of the other company members – where she was surprised not once, but twice more.

Her eyes lingered for a moment on the fair-haired Ellon in the company, his appearance here puzzling her as much as making her wonder as to the purpose of this curious company. The last time she had seen Legolas had been nearly 80 years ago, on a day both of them had lost someone they cared about. Ardhoniel quickly shifted her attention to the final member of the group, a red-haired Dwarf whom she did not know directly, but nevertheless sparked a sense of familiarity in her. Before she could give the matter any more thought, Aragorn spoke once more.

'Our boats are tied up by the riverbank; feel free to help yourself to anything you may need. We are greatly indebted to you,' he inclined his head.

'You mean not to follow them?' Legolas spoke, his words more a statement than a question.

'Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands.'

'Then it has all been in vain,' the Dwarf concluded with a deep set to his eyebrows, 'The fellowship has failed.'

'Not if we hold true to each other. If we leave now, we may still save Merry and Pippin from torment and death.' He gestured towards the boats, 'Leave all that can be spared behind; we travel light.'

Before leaving, Aragorn's eyes once more found Ardhoniel's and he gave her a nod before the strange trio disappeared between the trees.

A second passed in which Ardhoniel was left to stare at the treeline. Then, remembering herself – and the dying Man who was now propped up against the base of a tree – she whistled loudly, and a second later Nimlothappeared, a little shaken but luckily no worse for wear it seemed. As she untied some of the bags and pouches from the animal, the Elleth could swear she saw movement – two small figures with mops of curly hair – on the opposite bank of the lake, but she had no time to linger on it. She crouched down next to the Man, finding that his eyes had drifted shut, and feared for one terrifying moment that she was too late. Her gaze drifted once more to the embroidered white tree on his torso, a symbol of the courage of Men – or so it had been at one point, long ago, before the kingdom of Gondor had fallen into despair and dilapidation.

'Leave me,' the Man suddenly choked out, and she found his grey and bloodshot eyes had snapped open, 'I do not deserve to be saved.'

'I cannot judge the truth of those words,' she said bluntly, as her hand touched his comfortingly, 'And it is not to me to pass such judgment; nor to you. But I do know one thing: your friends did not leave you in my care without difficulty, and I find that the manner in which his companions treat him says a lot about a Man. Now lie still and brace yourself, son of Gondor, while I remove these arrows; they have gone deep and it will no doubt cause great pain to remove them.'

Despite the somewhat morbid note at which they ended, her words seemed to calm the Man who had been so adverse to her help initially, for he simply closed his eyes, balling his hands to fists and nodded.

Regardless of his resolve, an agonized scream soon rang through the quiet forest and Ardhoniel tried to be as gentle as possible when she cleaned and bandaged the wounds. At that moment, in the back of her mind, she knew she would not be returning to Lothlórien anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Welcome back to the second chapter of this sequel story. I certainly hope you all enjoyed the first part and wish to thank _ColdOnePaul_ and (whose name, I'm told, was not inspired by this OC!) for letting me know they did. As with _Bâhukhazâd_ and _the Lost_ _Years_ , I shall try to keep up a writing/posting rate of one chapter per week, with Monday being my publishing date. We'll see how I manage, haha. Now, enjoy this chapter and don't forget to tell me your thoughts!**

* * *

 **Chapter two: A sense of déjà-vu**

That first night they camped in the glade where she had found him. Although she cared little for staying amidst a place of such violence, the Man was still weak, drifting in and out of consciousness, and she did not think it wise to move him unless under the utmost necessity. And so she was left to collect fire wood – never straying too far from the Man – to set up camp and cook them a simple dinner of whatever little was left from her provisions. Most of all, however, she pondered the strange situation she found herself in.

Clearly, the Man had been part of a larger – and terribly mismatched, if she dare say so – company, consisting of Aragorn, Legolas, and the Dwarf that had seemed so familiar. However, the Dúnedan had also made mention of a "Frodo" who had apparently left them, and a "Merry" and "Pippin" who they were pursuing. The objective of their company, however, alluded her, as did the battle they had found themselves in. Had the company simply found itself at the wrong place at the wrong time or had it been a targeted attack? And if the latter, what had been the reason for it? Then of course there was the matter of the wounded Man in her care. Why had he so blatantly refused her help? What had he done to make him believe he was unworthy of help? And perhaps more importantly, was there truth behind his words?

Her gaze automatically shifted over to the still form of the Man. He was tall and broad, giving her the impression that this had not been his first battle. She considered he was one of Aragorn's fellow Rangers, but that did not seem right, for his build was too powerful to hide in the shadows. Perhaps a soldier, then? But what would a Gondorian soldier be doing in the wild with the last heir to the throne of Gondor, and the Prince of Mirkwood?

Ardhoniel sighed, returning her eyes to the fire. She did not know anything about him, not even his name. All that she knew was that Aragorn seemed to care for his wellbeing. She had told him that the way a Man is treated says much about him, and it seemed that was what she would have to contend herself with until he was well enough to answer some of her questions himself.

* * *

The Man stirred sometime in the late morning of the next day. Ardhoniel had been staring off across the water, at the spot where she could swear she had seen two small figures the day before, when a loud grown alerted her that the Gondorian Man had regained consciousness – or something like that, in any case.

'Good morning,' she greeted him politely, turning to find he had managed to prop himself up on his elbows with great difficulty. 'You may consider laying back down for a moment, whilst I treat your wounds.'  
He seemed a little surprised to find her there, but nodded regardless as he returned to a horizontal position. When she sat down beside him, carrying a bowl with a mixture of herbs, he eyed her somewhat wearily. Deciding to pay it no mind, she gestured for him to remove his outer tunic as she stirred in the bowl.

He was still when she started peeling away the bandages, a sharp intake of a breath the only indication that he was in pain whenever some of the bandages would catch on a wound. The wounds bared, Ardhoniel was pleased to see that at least they did not appear to have gotten infected. Even so, it would be a long healing process, even longer for some of the bruised and broken ribs that lay beneath. Her gaze shifted upwards, finding his eyes already carefully watching her, 'I will apply some salve now. As you may recall from yesterday, this may sting a little.'

While she highly doubted this – he had been decidedly unconscious by the time she had gotten to dressing his wounds – the Man remained silent, both as she applied the mixture of herbs and as she redressed the wounds. For a moment, she feared something more may be wrong with him – a hit to the head perhaps? – when his weary eyes found hers once more.

'Who are you?'

'A Healer from Lothlórien. I'm called Ardhoniel.'

Knowing her name seemed to put him at ease, for he gave her a short nod. 'I thank you for your assistance, Ardhoniel of the Golden Wood. If you can tell me where my companions have gone, I would like to be on my way as soon as I can, that I may catch up with them.'

She sat motionless for a moment, staring incredulously at the Man – who, mind you, was barely able to keep himself propped up on his elbows long enough to deliver his speech – who had just calmly explained that he wished to continue his journey. When words finally passed her lips, it seemed they had evaded the filter of her rational mind altogether. 'Seems I should have checked for head injuries after all…'

'I beg your pardon?' The Gondorian Man replied, clearly taken aback by her lack of diplomacy.

'I am merely wondering if you may have hit your head at some point during the battle, for your speech makes no sense to me. You are hurt, son of Gondor, and gravely at that. I did not go through all this trouble to pull you back from the brink of dead just to have you die on the road the next day.'

'I did not ask to be saved,' the Man ground out.

'Indeed. And I did not ask to have to put my own life in danger, just so I could save the life of a most ungrateful Man such as yourself. But alas, it appears the Valar had different plans for the both of us!'

Silence followed her rash words, and Ardhoniel feared she had gone too far. Clearly he was not used to being in a situation in which he was cared for, and was not used to feeling so weak. She could only guess as to what had led him to that battle in the wood – and could only imagine that it must not have been easy. She sighed softly. 'I ap…'

'I beg…'

Just as they had started at the same moment, both again fell silent. When he motioned for her to continue, she offered him a grim smile. 'I wish to apologise. While it is true that I had little desire to be caught up in the troubles of the world – as I imagine have all who live in these dark times –I was wrong to express these sentiments to you, son of Gondor. To return to your earlier question, I am afraid I only have an answer that means little to me – although it might to you. They said that the fate of a Frodo is out of their hands, but that they would attempt to save a Merry and Pippin from pain and death.'

The Man nodded, a deep frown set to his brow. 'Isengard.'

'Isengard? Where the White Wizard dwells? Does that not mean they are safe?'

'In a different time perhaps. These days the Wizard's mind has been clouded by a desire for power. The Uruk-hai that attacked us yesterday bore the white hand of Saruman.'

Ardhoniel felt her mouth drop as her mind reeled at the news. Could it be true? Had one of the Order turned against the Free Peoples of Middle Earth? She wished to ask more, but when she gazed upon his face once more, she found the Gondorian looked exhausted, eyes fighting to remain open. 'Go to sleep, rest. I shall wake you for dinner.'

For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to protest. Then, his eyelids closed as if on their own accord and she could soon see the pain fade from his expression as he slipped out of consciousness.

* * *

The hours passed slowly with once again little to do except think – and thinking being the one thing that Ardhoniel wished she could escape. For although she tried to keep herself occupied with thoughts about the mysterious Man and his company, too soon her thoughts strayed to her own place in all of this.

For years, she had attempted to hide from the world and its troubles, but it seemed that trouble had caught up with her at last. Unwilling or not, she had once more found herself in the middle of a quest that she knew little of, with a companion that she understood even less. It seemed she was destined to be stuck with difficult males – although perhaps that was not a fair deduction, as she knew next to nothing of the Man.

Indeed, as her gaze once again strayed to the unconscious Gondorian, the Elleth could not say that apart from his foolhardy statement to leave he resembled the Dwarves of Erebor all that much. For one, he was a lot more silent in sleep. Moreover, he was a whole lot taller and less sturdy – although she dare say he appeared strong in his own right. His shoulders were broad and his arms toned. What she had seen of his torso while cleaning his wounds was muscular, and she was once more to conclude that he had to be a soldier of some kind. Like many of his people, his hair was dark and his eyes grey, and if she was completely honest with herself she had to admit that he was not all that bad looking. In fact, she would even deem him handsome, where it not for the tension that seemed ever-present in the drawn features of his face.

Ridding herself of such mawkish and thoughts, she quickly rose from her perch and busied herself for the next twenty minutes with collecting wood for the fire.

When she returned to their campsite, she found the Man had awoken, and had his keen eyes once more trained on her. Pretending she hadn't noticed, she continued to put down her bundle of firewood next to the fire, and started feeding it some of the smaller twigs.

'How much longer shall you confine me here, my Lady?'

She looked up, taken off guard by this rather direct question – and surprised that he had spoken to her at all. 'As long as is needed for your wounds to start mending. If you leave now, surely the movement will undo any improvement that has been made.'

He did not respond immediately, staring pensively into the fire, 'Why do you remain? You have done your duty, you are free to return now to your home.'

'What is your name, son of Gondor?'

He looked confused by her question. 'Boromir, son of Denethor, my Lady.'

'I promised your friends that I would try saving you, Lord Boromir.' She said, as she turned away from the fire and approached him with careful steps. When she sank down beside him, she offered him a tiny smile, 'And I promised myself that I would succeed. It would be very difficult to fulfil those promises if I leave you here, do you not agree?'

He did not argue as she gently guided him down once more into a horizontal position, and loosened his tunic to examine the bandages beneath. Much like before, his gaze followed the gentle movement of her fingers, but his eyes no longer shone with suspicion but rather with a strange curiosity.

Feeling uncomfortable under this new type of scrutiny, Ardhoniel quickly finished her inspection before hurrying back to the fire to cook them up a simple dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hi all and welcome back to the third installment already of this story. I'll have you know that I already have everything written up until chapter 10, although I do need to make some decisions on a couple of relatively important things. More on this later. For now, a big thank you to _ColdOnePaul_ for reviewing last week's chapter, you are amazing! Now, on with the story!**

* * *

 **Chapter three: Of Men and mules**

In the end, they spent another two days in the glade. Although she'd had to – almost literally – knock some sense into the Gondorian Man each morning to prevent him from leaving, she had to say that overall he hadn't been too bad a companion. He made little noise, spoke even less, and if she ignored the looks he would send her at times, she could almost pretend that she was alone on the road again, and that all of this excitement with the Uruk-hai and the strange company she had encountered had been nothing but a strange dream.

But alas, let us return to the third morning, on which Ardhoniel, after an inspection of his wounds, concluded that the Man's flesh wounds had started mending. No sooner had the words passed her lips, had the Man already managed to spring to his feet. While he had surely been regaining his strength over the past few days, the excitement soon proved too much and he sank back to his knees.

Ardhoniel had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at him, instead opting for a light scolding. 'I said you are on the mend, son of Gondor, not that you are mended. Your wounds are still far too grave to walk all the way to… what is it, Isengard? Valar only know what you would plan to do there in your state…'

He gave her a dismayed look, before sitting back down on a fallen tree. 'Then what do you suggest I do, my Lady? Wait here while the others attempt to save Merry and Pippin?'

'You would be of equal use here as you would be if you actually joined them. Which is to say bare little,' she argued sharply.

'I would rather die there than sit by idly here!'

'Then by all means go!'

A second passed in which they both simply glared at one another, then the Gondorian Man stood – demonstratively, might I add – from the log, grabbed his shield and sword, and went over to the boats to collect some more of his things. Then, he shot her one last, withering look, before he started his stroll out of the glade.

For several moments, Ardhoniel stared vehemently at his retreating back, before huffing loudly and calling her horse. The animal came trotting over obediently – quite unlike a certain Man! – and she quickly stuffed her things into the bags and pouches on its back. Rummaging through the supplies on the boats, she collected some more provisions, a spare blanket, and two filled water skins. When all her things were packed away, she mounted her horse and took off in the same direction as the Man had.

It did not take her long to catch up with him. Stubborn though he was, Boromir had only managed to get so far, and by the strain on his face, it was clear that even doing that had taken an immense toll on him.

Drawing up next to him, the Elleth emitted a deep sigh, 'What are you doing?' When he did not respond, she urged the mount in front of him, forcing him to a stop. 'If you wish to bleed out before we even pass into the Sutcrofts, this surely is the way to go about it.'  
He crossed his arms in front of him, 'I thank you for the assistance and the _helpful_ advice, my Lady, but I think I should find my way into Rohan just fine, thank you. You may return to Lothlórien.'

Heaving another sigh, Ardhoniel descended from her horse and held out the reins to him. 'You ride her. That way there is at least some hope you actually make it to our destination alive.'

He looked surprised by her words – and she noticed her slip only too late. 'Why would you offer to come with me?'

To be honest, she did not know why she had done so. Despite not being all too bad a companion, the Man had been stubborn, difficult – not to mention a complete stranger. And yet, taking care of him these past days had distracted her from her grief. Arguing with him, she had been able to truly escape her past for the first in many years. And if she were completely honest with herself, she had felt more alive these past days than she had in many years.

'You need my help,' she said simply, shrugging her shoulders before she once more gestured towards the horse. 'Come on. If there's any chance of still catching up with your companions, it's with you off your feet.'

He gave her another withering look, but then accepted the reins nonetheless and climbed gracefully on top of the mount. They did not speak for most of the next days, with the exception of a short, recurring discussion on who was to take the watch – which Ardhoniel won every time around on account of him still being on the mend.

Although she did not mind the quiet in the least, there was one aspect about the silence that was bugging her more and more with each passing day. Much like her adventure with the Dwarves of Erebor, she only had a vague idea of where they were heading. Unlike last time, however, this time around she did not even know the purpose of their journey.

'Who are Merry and Pippin?' She asked at last on the fourth day, when she had deduced that despite her freely offered help, the Gondorian was not about to offer her any information about their quest in return.

He seemed surprised that she spoke at all – which was not so strange, as they had been travelling for many hours in silence that morning. 'They are Halflings. Hobbits. Small folk from…-'

'I understand what a Hobbit is,' She interrupted with a roll of her eyes. 'What I don't understand is what two of them would be doing so far from their comfortable homes.'

'Four.'

'Four Hobbits? Across the Misty Mountains?' She asked, then another thought occurred to her, 'What happened to the other two?'

Boromir remained silent at first, and when she looked up at him, she found the Man staring off into the distance, a deep frown set on his brow. Whatever memory he was revisiting, she was certain it was not a happy one. 'Their paths separated from ours during the battle. We can only hope they made it out unscathed.'

A scene suddenly flashed in front of the Elleth's mind's eye. Two small figures, disappearing into the woods on the far-off bank of Nen Hithoel. At the time, the memory had hardly seemed important. Now, it brought a small smile to her lips. 'I am sure they…' She fell silent as another sound reached her ears. A low drumming. Her mind flashed back to the drum she had heard a couple of days ago. Like then, this was the drum of footfalls – only many, _many_ more.

They had come to a standstill, and Ardhoniel reached down to pull her blade from its sheet as she prepared for whatever was to come. Now that they were out in the open plains of Rohan, there was no more hiding. If it came down to it, it would be killing or being killed.

But as the sound increased, and her companion also finally picked up on it, the Elleth found her stance relaxing and she slid her sword back into the sheet.

'What are you doing?!' Boromir called over the by now deafening cacophony of footsteps, his own sword clasped tightly in his hand despite his injuries.

She was saved her answer, however, as just then a large mass appeared on the horizon. The sunlight reflected off of their raised weapons as they approached the two companions, over a hundred strong and all riding war mounts. When they neared them, the riders broke out of formation, and encircled them as water would a rock in the ocean. By now, Boromir had also sheeted his weapon, and when she chanced a glance in his direction, Ardhoniel surprisingly found him more at ease than herself.

'State who you are and what your business in the Riddermark is, strangers,' one of the Men spoke in clipped tones. He had pushed his white horse closer to them intimidatingly, and was giving them a look of outright suspicion.

The Man at her side looked mildly affronted, 'I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Captain of the White Tower. Hail to you, Éomer, son of Éomund.'

Surprise passed over the new Man's face – and over Ardhoniel's, she was sure – and he removed his helmet as he urged his horse even closer so that he may clap the Gondorian on his shoulder. 'Lord Boromir? You will excuse me, my friend, but I daresay you are the last person I had expected to see here. And looking so dirty, too; I hardly recognised you! Tell me, what brings you back to Rohan?'

'We are tracking some of our friends, who we believe to have passed through these lands several days ago; a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf they are, odd though that may seem.'

'Aye, I have seen them,' Éomer nodded, to both Boromir and Ardhoniel's surprise. 'My company and I came across them mere days ago. They were in search of two of their companions, I was told.'

'Did they find them?'

The Rohirric Man's expression turned troubled, and the Elleth thought she saw a flash of pity in his eyes before he replied. 'I will tell you the same as I did them, my friend. My company slaughtered the Uruk-hai band near the edge of Fangorn. We did not see any sign of the Halflings they were looking for.'

'They may have fled,' Ardhoniel offered, as she noted the crestfallen look on the Gondorian's face. 'Perhaps they found a way to escape before the battle ensued?'

Éomer's gaze briefly flashed to her, before it returned to the Man at her side. 'We are on our way back to Edoras, will you not join us? If there is any news of your friends, you will find it there.'

Boromir nodded, obviously still thrown off by the news he had just received. 'Perhaps I shall.'

'And the lady? Can she ride with you?'

Somehow the question snapped Boromir from his momentary stupor, and he seemed reminded for the first in quite some time of her presence. 'Actually, I am afraid I shall be the one in need of a horse, Lord Éomer. This horse belongs to the lady – and now that my destiny has shifted, she shall not be acc…-'

'Be needing it anytime soon,' Ardhoniel interrupted, giving the Gondorian a warning glance. 'I do not mind walking.'

Éomer did not look impressed by her answer, 'You will have to forgive my insistence on your riding if you wish to come along, my Lady. My Men have been away from their families for many months; I do not wish to delay their reunion any longer.'

'Then we shall share the horse.'

* * *

The words had been spoken with no small amount of dismay on both of their ends, although in the end Ardhoniel dare say it wasn't too bad if only because it allowed her to interrogate the Gondorian more thoroughly.

'You did not tell me you are the son of the Steward of Gondor.'

'I suppose it must have slipped my mind while I was bleeding out on the forest floor,' he replied dryly – and Ardhoniel felt her cheeks heat up as she realised the insolence of her question.

'However, I suppose that title will mean little if we succeed, wouldn't it?'

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

He did not answer at first, and as he was seated in front of her she had only his back to draw deductions from. At last he asked, in a strained voice, 'What do you know of our quest?'

'Very little.'

'Then why would she… For what reason where you there during the battle near Amon Hen?' He sounded frustrated. As if he was asking all the right questions but she was not giving the right answers. This only served to further confuse the Elleth – and she furrowed her brows at his accusing tone.

'No reason! I was just passing through the area when I heard the sounds of a fight and decided to help. Why are you asking me this?'

'Why did she sent you?' Boromir at last turned in the saddle, a deep frown set on his face as his eyes bore into hers. If she had been confused before, Ardhoniel had truly lost track of any meaning in his words now. 'She told me that I should not lose hope, that I would not be alone, but I do not understand why the Lady Galadriel would send _you_ to me.'

'Galadriel? The lady Galadriel told you I would come?' His passive face ascertained her the Gondorian was being serious, and she frowned in response.

Truth was, it had been quite some time since she had last seen the Lady of Wood – and even longer since she had shared any of her thoughts or plans with her. However, even if she had told the Lady of her plans, finding and saving the Gondorian's life had surely not been part of them. Galadriel must have seen something in her mirror, she realised, although why she would have told Boromir Ardhoniel would be his rescuer in need was beyond her. Ardhoniel had to supress a snort at the mere thought. 'Lady Galadriel did not sent me.'

'Then why did you come along?'

'That is the second time you ask me that question, Lord Boromir, and I so I shall repeat the answer I gave you the first time. You needed my help – and you still do.'

He glanced over his shoulder once more, but said nothing. No more words were passed on the matter – or on anything else really – that day.

By the time they finally stopped for the night, her thighs and butt muscles were cramped up, and Ardhoniel was about ready to sleep on her feet after the many days she had taken watch to allow her companion some rest – and the many, seemingly far away nights before that when she had been alone on the road. However, any plans of passing out right then and there were put on hold as she watched the Man climb off of the horse, torso held stiffly and an undeniable wince accompanying every movement that he made.

Sighing softly, she gestured for him to remove his tunic as she went to unsaddle and feed Nimloth. When she returned, she found her suspicions not only confirmed, but found the damage was worse than she had feared. Both arrow wounds had reopened, slowly seeping blood, and from the odd angle in which he was holding himself, she could only guess the horse riding had put a strain on the still mending ribs. If continued for too long, Ardhoniel feared they may not heal in the proper way, causing life-long difficulties.

The Elleth made quick work of removing the bloodied bandages, resewing the wounds, and then dressing them in a salve and fresh bandages. Although she did not give voice to her annoyance, she was sure the Man would be able to feel it radiating off of her – and he wisely kept his mouth shut. After finishing up, she went to put away her medical supplies in one of her saddle bags when she spotted the Man who had spoken to them before, sitting by a campfire by himself.

Redirecting her path to him – and pushing back her exhaustion a little bit longer – she noticed in surprise that without his helmet and heavy armour, he looked a lot younger than she had imagined. While still no expert on the aging of Men, she daresay that Boromir had at least a decennium on the horse lord, who appeared to only just have reached maturity. Knowing the fragility of the ego of males, however, she made sure to give him a polite smile as she came up to him.

'Lord Éomer, might I have a word?'

'Of course, my Lady. What can I do for you at this late hour?'

'Could you tell me how much longer it is until we reach Edoras?'

'About a day's riding, if all goes well.' Seeing her troubled expression, he continued, 'I can imagine my Lady is not used to…-'

'I didn't ask for me,' she interrupted, a little too harshly. Ardhoniel sighed, 'It is about Lord Boromir; he is wounded.'

Éomer let out a deep breath, his voice, although still polite, now carrying an undertone of impatience. As if trying to explain a simple concept to a child. 'As are many of my Men, my Lady. Wounds, cuts, even broken bones can be taken care of _once_ we reach Edoras.'

'I think you underestimate the severity of his wounds, Lord Éomer. When I found him several days ago he was bleeding out on the forest floor. If I were a proper Healer, I would not allow him to be up at all, let alone ride a horse!' Seeing his impassive face, she huffed and turned to make for her bedroll. 'Good night, Lord Éomer.'

* * *

 **Author's Note: Some notes on this chapter. First, I'm not trying to make Éomer out as the bad guy (he's not!). However, he does have somewhat old-fashioned notions about females and he is also just looking out for his Men. About Boromir, I'm honestly just curious to hear your opinion about him.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to chapter four! A big thank you to _Tibblets_ and _ColdOnePaul_ for their reviews of last week's chapter; I'm very glad to hear you liked my portrayal of Boromir. This week's chapter covers some of the movie, but I'm going to try and avoid having to copy scenes and lines too much. Now, on with the story!**

* * *

 **Chapter four: Royalty**

The next morning Ardhoniel woke to the sound of Men walking to and fro, stuffing bedrolls and other items into saddle bags, and a most curious conversation – one that was undoubtedly not meant for her ears.

'… that you were wounded. My Men are all eager to go home and I cannot ask them to ride at a slower pace, Lord Boromir. However, I can ask one of them to stay with you as you make your way to Edoras at a more comfortable speed.'

'It is no trouble; I can manage until we get to Edoras,' Boromir responded in turn, and even with her eyes closed the Elleth could feel his gaze burning into her. Although unsurprised that he would prioritize his wounded ego over his wounded body, she couldn't help but curse at him mentally. Typical Man he was; never realising their own mortality until it was too late. And no doubt leaving her to clean up the mess when his wounds would inevitably tear open once again…

'Who is she anyway?' Éomer asked at last, breaking the silence that had followed the Gondorian's statement.

'A Healer from the Golden Wood she told me. What makes you ask?'

The Rohirric Man did not respond immediately, and when he did he sounded a bit sheepish. 'If I may be so frank; from the way she spoke to me, one would think she was some sort of Elvish royalty. Isn't her kind supposed to be pensive and silent?'

'Aye that is what I thought…'

'Well, you best wake her up, it is time to leave.'

When the Gondorian finally came to shake her arm in a rather boorish attempt at waking her, Ardhoniel made sure to throw him the nastiest glare she could muster, pushing past him to go and put her own things back on Nimloth. While she was not truly offended by the things they had said about her – this was, after all, not the first time someone had pointed out her lack of diplomacy – she was offended by how easily they had discussed these things. Chivalrous Men indeed.

* * *

As it was, she spoke little to Boromir, or anyone else, that day, and while she usually did prefer the solitude, with little do on the back of Nimloth but stew on her anger, Ardhoniel quickly grew bored. After a short break for the midday's meal, the anger had made place for a light annoyance with the Gondorian and the horse lord, and the Elleth found her mind wandering to memories that she'd rather not revisit.

'Will you not tell me about your homeland, son of Gondor,' she requested at last, a sigh accompanying the words that belied the otherwise unassuming and even pleasant nature of her inquiry. 'I am told it is very beautiful, but haven't had the fortune of visiting it myself.'

'You have heard correctly,' he replied at last, his voice as stiff as his back. 'About which part of it would milady prefer to hear, as Gondor is vast indeed and I would be unable to describe all of it even if I wished to.'

She thought for a moment. Truthfully, Ardhoniel knew little of the geography of the kingdom of Men – nor did she care much about knowing the specifics. However, if she had learned anything from her experience with males of any race, it was that they held a fierce love for their homeland. If there was any subject that she could hope to speak about with the Gondorian without strife, it must be this. 'Tell me of your favourite place.'

She could hear him sigh deeply, and for a moment thought that he would not concede to her admittedly vague request. When he started to speak at last, his words were guarded, sentences short, story disjointed as he seemingly censored it for any personal information. Even so, the way he described the Elven haven near Dol Amroth made the Elleth's eyes widen in wonder – and a pang of homesickness ran through her as she was reminded of her own home.

By the end of his description, Ardhoniel could picture the location perfectly in her mind, but still knew next to nothing about why it meant so much to him. Even without him admitting to it, however, it was clear to the Elleth that it did. 'It sounds wonderful. Do you miss your home?'

'I do, but more so I fear what I shall find upon my return. If I return.' Then, before she could question him on the meaning of his words, he turned on her unexpectedly. 'What about you, my Lady? Do you miss the Golden Wood?'

'I do. Although Lothlórien is not my home; it is in Imladris that my family dwells and it is from there that I hail.'

'Rivendell? Do you miss them – your family, that is?'

'Sometimes,' she said, and she found it was the most truthful answer that she could have given him. On most days, like any grown Elleth, she thought little of her father and siblings. If she did, it would only be in a fleeting sense, too quick to pass to trigger any sentiment. On some days however, she did find her mind wandering back to the family she had left behind when she departed from her home. She would wonder how her sister was faring, what her two troublesome brothers would have gotten themselves into that day, and she would think of her father – and hope that after all these years he may have forgiven her. But despite her questions, despite the bouts of homesickness that came over her from time to time, she never considered going back.

'You are a long way from home, my Lady,' the Gondorian observed, breaking her out of her reverie. 'Indeed, from the Hidden Valley it took our company nearly a moon's time to make it to the Golden Wood.'

'You were in Imladris – or Rivendell, as you say?' She asked excitedly, the melancholy thoughts for a moment forgotten. 'What did you think of it?'

'It was quite unlike anything I had seen before, I admit, though when I first arrived I was hardly in any state to notice any beauty your home had to offer. I had planned to travel through Dunland and Eregion to the north, and to arrive in Rivendell by mid-summer. Unfortunately, I lost my horse in Tharbad and had to travel the remainder of the way on foot.'

'On foot?! Why, that must have been quite the venture indeed!'

'Indeed. Lord Elrond was a gracious enough host to me on my arrival however, and no efforts were spared in relieving the aching of my feet,' he chuckled, the deep sound most uncharacteristic but not at all unpleasant to Ardhoniel's ears. 'I can imagine why some of my kind would prefer to stay there.'

Her mind flashed to Aragorn and she wondered if the Gondorian was thinking along the same lines. If so, that would mean the Dúnedan had stepped out of the shadows at last. Incidentally, thinking of Aragorn also brought forth thoughts about her sister, and she found she could not quell her curiosity. 'What about his children, how did you find them?'

'I only spoke to the Lady Arwen briefly, but she was very kind to me on this occasion. I was told neither Lord Elrond's sons, nor his youngest daughter were in Rivendell.'

'Not in Rivendell?' She echoed, mind racing as she considered the opportunities. Valar knew her brothers had a knack for trouble – and one couldn't help but worry that they would land themselves in one kind or another. 'Where were Elladan and Elrohir then, pray tell?'

Boromir turned to look at her over his shoulder, a rather curious expression to his face. 'I haven't asked. My Lady, I cannot help but get the feeling that…-'

'We near Edoras!' Éomer called out to them, pointing in the distance where now – clear as day for the Elleth – they could spot the outlines of a city perched on a large rock. The setting sun played on the golden roofs of the houses, but even from this distance, that appeared to be the only thing playing in the settlement. Indeed, if she did not know any better, she might believe the city to be deserted. 'Remember what I told you; do not expect a warm welcome…'

As Éomer returned to the head of the formation – and Boromir had yet to give in to the questioning gaze directed at the back of his head – Ardhoniel decided to voice her confusion. 'What did Lord Éomer mean by those last words?'

Boromir sighed deeply, 'From what I understand, the King has been placed under some kind of curse and has been the puppet of an unknown master for these past years.'

'Saruman?'

'Possibly. Before, I dared not believe the rumours that he was now working with the enemy. After nearly being felt by his arrows, it does not seem so unlikely anymore to me that he would use magic to control the mind of the King.'

By now they had arrived at the gates of the city, where after a short exchange between the guard on duty and Éomer they were allowed to enter. The cavalry filed into the narrow streets of Edoras and again, Ardhoniel couldn't escape the solemnity that lay on the town, suffocating it and her along with it like a thick smog. There were few people out in the street, and those that were eyed her with weariness and suspicion. Far from a warm welcome, indeed…

The riders had started scattering as soon as they had entered the town, some towards their homes, others towards the local tavern, and by the time they reached the base of the high stairs that led to the King's hall, it was just Lord Éomer, another horseman that Ardhoniel did not know, and Boromir and herself. They left their horses at the bottom of the stairs in the hands of a young stableboy, when Éomer once more turned to them.

'As I mentioned before, I warn you that you shall find no warm welcome in these halls, Lord Boromir and Lady Ardhoniel. The King no longer recognises his friends from foes,' Éomer remarked grimly as they started the trek up the stairs, and Ardhoniel could not help but overhear him adding in afterthought.

These grim words still clung to the air around them when they reached the top of the stairs – and the doors burst open unexpectedly. What came flying out seemed at first only a flurry of black, but later could be identified by the Elleth as a thin, greasy and sickly Man that was knocked down to the top of the stairs. Their party was only just in time to step away to avoid being caught in the collision, and they watched in confusion as the King of Rohan strode out of the open doors, face twisted in rage and his sword held tightly in his right hand.

'Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!' Bellowed he, advancing on the greasy Man as he, in turn, attempted to hide behind the newly arrived company.

As the King raised his sword to strike down the other Man, a familiar form slipped out of the audience that had formed behind the King, and stepped in front of him. 'No, my Lord! Let him go; enough blood has been spilt on his account.'

Refusing Aragorn's offered hand, the greasy Man scrambled to his feet and rudely pushed his way through the gathered crowd. A moment of silence passed in which all assembled watched the conman go, then a red-haired and bearded Man clad in the colours of Rohan stepped forward, his face expressionless but a relieved glean in his eyes. 'All hail Théoden King!'

'Hail Théoden King!' Ardhoniel echoed distractedly along with the crowd, as she watched Aragorn step back behind the King, retaking his place next to Legolas and the red-headed Dwarf. As she was once more struck by the familiarity of the Dwarf, King Théoden had taken to glancing around him in confusion, seemingly more desperate with each passing second.

'Where is Théodred? Where is my son?'


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Welcome back and a merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it! This week I have an especially long chapter for you and I hope you enjoy it. (: A special thanks to _ColdOnePaul_ for their review of the previous chapter. Enjoy this chapter and don't forget to share your thoughts about it!

* * *

 **Chapter five: The tale of the Bâhukhazâd**

The funeral was a solemn affair. Despite not having known the son nor his father, Ardhoniel could sympathise with their pain only too well, and when the niece took to singing a hymn for the young Man, she had to step away. Traversing past the older tombstones that lined the path, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly as the sound of the wind replaced the young Woman's grief.

It was the first moment she had had to herself ever since finding Boromir that day in the woods, the first moment she really had to reflect on all that had happened since leaving her quiet life in Lothlórien. Having clung on to it so tightly for so long, the Elleth was surprised to find she hardly missed it. For all the trouble that it had brought her, saving the Gondorian Man had also given her a sense of purpose and a direction in life – albeit only temporarily. Now that he was reunited with his friends and able to get care from an actual Healer, there was little reason for her to linger in Edoras. Soon, she would have to be back on her way to Lothlórien, where awaited her a safe and peaceful, if a little boring, life – and she wasn't sure why the very idea displeased her so. For years, peace and quiet was all that she had longed for, all that she had found helped to numb the pain. Now, she wasn't sure what she wanted.

'I'm surprised to find you here, Lady Ardhoniel,' a voice remarked suddenly, effectively drawing her from her thoughts – and causing her to jump. 'Then again, I do remember you having the habit of showing up where you are least expected.'

'Mithrandir?' She regarded the Maia in confusion. Surely it was him, for he had the same wise eyes and kind yet mischievous smile, but everything around it seemed to have changed. She told him just that.

'I perished,' he said cryptically, once and for all confirming that he was indeed the same Wizard that she had come to see as her friend over the past years. 'And then the Valar sent me back because my task here was not yet completed. Since Saruman is somewhat… failing in carrying out his duties, they have sent me as a replacement.'

A soft smile played at her lips, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as she reached forward to embrace the Maia. 'Your words make little sense to me, I admit, but then again I suppose they never did. I am simply glad to see you again, old friend.'

'As am I you, Lady Ardhoniel. And as I'm sure was Lord Boromir. If what I'm told is correct, he owes his life to you.'

She bowed her head, ignoring the meaningful gaze he gave her. A short silence fell upon them, and when she chanced a glance up, she found the Istar's gaze was now turned towards the horizon, a frown set upon his white brow.

'I fear the situation in Rohan may be more dire than any of us could have predicted. Even knowing Saruman's treachery, I did not foresee how far his influence already reached. I fear we may have need of your skills before long.'

Clearing her throat, the Elleth addressed her own boot-clad feet as she muttered, 'I am not staying.'

'Pardon?'

'I plan to return to Lothlórien as soon as possible.'

'Return? To Lothlórien? Why, that is preposterous!'

'Is it though, Mithrandir? We both know I have no place in all of this,' she gestured at the lands around her. Then, in a softer voice, she added, 'We both know my skills in healing will do these people little good if war would break out.'

'And yet you may be all they shall have!'

'I came here to see Lord Boromir safely to his friends, and I did. It is time I return to the Golden Wood, Mithrandir.'

The Maia huffed and made to walk away. He stopped mid-step, turning to give her a disapproving look from over his shoulder, 'Wallowing in your self-pity for these past decades has done you little good, Lady Ardhoniel – and neither will doing just that for the next few.'

She turned her gaze back on the setting sun, pretending that she did not feel the sting from his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe she had not gotten any closer to healing in these past years. But then again, neither had she gotten hurt any more. Did that not count for something, too?

'What did the Wizard want from you?'

This time she hardly jumped at the sound of a voice coming from behind her. She was surprised, however, to identify it as coming from the Gondorian. She schooled her expression into one more neutral before she replied, 'We are friends. We were merely catching up.'

Boromir glanced over his shoulder, where Ardhoniel could still see a retreating white form in the distance. When the Man turned back to her, one of his dark eyebrows was raised, 'It didn't look very friendly.'

'I suppose it hardly ever does with him,' she sighed, only now noticing how the fields had emptied and the sun had started its descend at some time during her ponderings – and she recalled that it had only been early afternoon when the funeral started. Her thoughts must have carried her away further than she had initially realised. 'Let us go back to the town; these are hardly times to wander around alone.'

He only nodded, falling into step with her as she started the walk back to Edoras. They didn't speak as they passed through the streets of the town, but Ardhoniel dare say the silence was less heavy than it had been between them before.

'What happens now?' She asked at last, in ways of making conversation, as they started up the long stair towards Meduseld.

'The two children that arrived will probably be questioned to…-'

'Children?'

Boromir gave her a sideways glance, but apparently decided not to question her. 'Two children arrived on horseback this afternoon, exhausted and properly shaken. They were taken to the King's hall to answer some questions about what happened after some food and drink.'

'War fugitives?'

'Most likely,' he replied, then he winced, his hand moving almost imperceptibly towards his ribs. Before he could control the involuntary movement however, the Elleth had pinned him with a disapproving glare.

'You should get that cleaned and redressed.'

He made a disgruntled sound, but made no further verbal reply as they passed through the heavy wooden doors into the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Just then, a female voice called her name, and when she turned Ardhoniel found the blonde woman from the funeral, the niece of the King, walking towards them.

For all intents and purposes, Ardhoniel thought to herself, the female might as well have been Elf-born, for her skin was pale and her hair fair. 'A room has been prepared for you, my Lady; if you would follow me?'

'Of course,' she replied, then she sighed and turned to the Man at her side, finding him dropping a hand back from his side near immediately at the weight of her gaze, 'You might as well come along; I shall tend your wounds before we join the others in the meeting hall.'

* * *

Upon arriving at the great hall, they found it in the midst of discussion. At that exact moment, King Théoden held up his hand, silencing whatever it was Mithrandir was about to say. 'I know what you ask of me, Gandalf, but I will not risk open war against Isengard. My people have faced too much loss already as of late.'

A short silence followed his statement, and instead of passing through the shadows to reunite with his companions like she had expected him to – like she had _hoped_ him to – Boromir started to approach the raised platform at the end of the hall with large strides. Ardhoniel followed along, always one half a step behind him and with considerably less confidence.

'Hail Théoden King, son of Thengel, Lord of the Mark,' Boromir addressed the Man in the high-backed chair, and bowed his head in respect.

'Lord Boromir,' Théoden nodded, 'It is an honour to have you here. My nephew informed me of your presence in his company these past days.'

'Lord Éomer was gracious enough to allow us to travel with him and his Men to Edoras,' Boromir confirmed, unconsciously drawing the King's attention to the figure half-concealed by his large frame.

'And who may you be, my Lady? Surely you are no Woman of Gondor, or of Rohan.'

'I apologise,' Boromir stepped to the side, leaving her quite exposed to the questioning eye of the King, 'Lady Ardhoniel happened upon us when my company and I were attacked by Saruman's Uruk-hai near Amon Hen. It is because of her that I stand before you now.'

'Then you have been most fortunate,' the King agreed, then gestured with his hand to the long table that spanned most of the room and was filled with simple dishes of bread, vegetables, and meat. 'Please, help yourselves to the food.'

Officially excused by the King, Ardhoniel could not hurry away any faster from the platform – so fast in fact, that she only noticed the two slips of children that were seated at the long table when she nearly tripped over them. They were huddled together in a pile of blankets, flashes of limbs only appearing every once in a while when a hand appeared out of the mass to spear something with a fork, their blonde heads confirming them to be of Rohirric heritance.

'Open war is upon you, whether you risk it or not,' a calm voice argued logically, effectively returning the conversation to the previous topic, and she watched Aragorn gesture with his pipe to the children seated next to her, 'The Westfold is being pillaged and burned as we speak.' While she knew he was right, Ardhoniel couldn't help but notice the effect his words had on the two children, who seemed to fold in on themselves even more.

'Do you think I do not know of the suffering of my people? That I do not know how Saruman is raising these lands to the ground?!' His words echoed through the suddenly deadly silent hall, and the King of Men fell back into his throne with a pained expression.

'Then what shall you do, Théoden King?' Mithrandir asked, his voice, although not impolite, certainly demanding. He, more than anyone, was aware of the destruction the White Wizard could wreck upon the lands of Rohan – and knew that they had yet to see the last of it.

'We shall make for Helm's Deep; tomorrow morning. There we shall outlive whatever Saruman can throw at us. There we shall be safe.'

More silence followed his decision, and when Ardhoniel dared an inconspicuous glance around the room, she noted the dissatisfaction etched on most of their faces. The discussion now brought to a – apparently entirely unsatisfying – conclusion, the room soon broke out in a dozen smaller conversations, and Ardhoniel found herself offering what she hoped was a comforting smile to the shaken boy and girl next to her.

'My name is Ardhoniel, what are yours?'

'Éothain, Miss,' said the older of the two, the boy, 'This is my sister Freda.'

'It is nice to meet you Éothain and Freda,' she nodded, before tearing off a piece of bread and washing it down with a sip of the mead. Supressing the urge to grimace at the bitter taste, Ardhoniel surveyed the room. By now, Boromir had joined his companions, and they were seemingly engaged in discussion – giving her the opportunity to scrutinise each of the members unabashedly.

Aragorn had changed a lot since the last time she had seen him. He had been but a young Man when he left Imladris and although he had always been of stern countenance, back then there had been a certain liveliness in him that came with youth. Now, his face was already lined with the signs of age and his skin was tanned and scarred, each telling of the eventful life he had had. It was to be expected of course, for it had been many decades since she had last seen him – and she suddenly recalled that, were he to age like a normal Man, he should have looked much older still. Indeed, if she did not know of his Númenórean heritage, she would guess him to be of roughly the same age as Boromir, perhaps a couple years his elder. In truth, she knew Aragorn must have been nearly twice the age of the Gondorian.

The Elf in the company was much the same as she remembered him – as could probably also be said for her. He was clad in a simple tunic and breaches, looking quite at ease around the two Men and the Dwarf – and she dare say that if he had not changed in looks, at least he did look a little less pompous than last time they'd met.

Last was of course the familiar looking Dwarf. Try as she might, she could not pinpoint what she knew him from. Moreover, the Dwarf in question gave no inclination of knowing her in turn, adding even more to the confusion. For now, however, her musings about his identity were cut short.

'Have you come from the Golden Wood?' The boy, Éothain, asked her. Then, at her affirmative response, 'Is it true there dwells a sorceress that can bewitch any who look at her?'

The Elleth felt the corners of her mouth twitch, although she could not entirely blame the boy for his idea of the Lady of the Forest. The Elves of Lothlórien – and indeed, of any other Elven society really – had kept mostly to themselves, and few mortals had met any, let alone their Lady. 'There is a witch,' Ardhoniel admitted, finally, 'Although her powers are not such as you describe – and she uses them only for the protection of her people.'

'You say her powers are not such, yet I found myself bewitched by the mere appearance of the Lady of the Woods,' a rough voice objected, and Ardhoniel was surprised to find that when she turned in her seat, it was the Dwarf who had spoken such laudatory words. 'The beauty of all gems and precious metals on this earth pales at the sight of her. But not only fair, but kind she was too. For on our parting I asked her for a single hair of her golden head. She gave me not one, but three.'

Ardhoniel felt her lips part in surprise at his words. Although it seemed he was unaware of the great honour that had been bestowed upon him, she knew that, if his words were true, the Dwarf had been presented with a great gift, indeed.

Looking to the side, Ardhoniel noticed the children, too, were enraptured by this wonderous tale of an Elf witch – so much so that they had seemingly forgotten about their troubles for a moment. 'Have you any exciting stories?'

'Oh,' she responded rather unintelligently, not expecting to be put on the spot like that, 'I… I haven't ever done anything exciting, really.' A rude sound was emitted from behind her, and were it not made by a certain Prince of Mirkwood, she might have classified it as a derisive snort. For now, Ardhoniel decided to ignore it, as well as the disappointed look on the face of the boy of Men.

'I have one, if you like,' the Dwarf offered, and he seated himself on the other side of the table with a mug of ale. 'It is a heroic tale, of an exiled Dwarven Prince, his quest to reclaim his homeland, and as honourable Elf as ever there was.'

By the time the words had left his mouth, and their meaning had registered in Ardhoniel's mind, it was too late for her to make a quick exit from the room. And so she sat trapped, and listened as he recounted the tale of Thorin and his company, of an unnamed Hobbit burglar, and, finally, of the Bâhukhazâd.

Throughout the story, she noted small alternations, tiny omissions and additions that turned the story's Elven guide into a pure, honourable, and moral heroine. But she said nothing, and with pain in her heart she listened as the tale finally neared its end.

'Was she in time to save him?' Éothain inquired, when Gimli had at last come to Thorin's death and his last words to Ardhoniel – or rather, to the story's Elven heroine, who indeed differed more greatly from her with each passing minute.

'Did they get married?' Freda wanted to know.

'No,' Gimli conceded at last, and both children sighed in disappointment. 'But because of her actions that day, both of the King's nephews lived and the line of Durin endured. Because of that, and her relation with the late King, the nephews named her Bâhukhazâd – Friend of Dwarves – and presented her with the greatest gift that they possessed.'

'Gold?'

'Gems?'

'A single bead,' Gimli injected, 'Made of the clearest silver, and inscribed with the symbol of the line of Durin. It had belonged to Thorin and had he been alive, the gifting of his bead would have marked the Bâhukhazâd as his companion.'

'What?' Ardhoniel cried, alarmed. 'You must be mistaken.'

Gimli glared at her, 'You think you know the story better than me?'

'No… I just… Surely Fíli didn't think of that when he presented m… her with the bead?'

'Are you calling my King dim-witted?' At her silence, he huffed. 'As I was saying, _if_ Thorin had lived, her wearing his bead would have marked her as his wife. In death, it served to identify her as aligned with the line of Durin, so that all Dwarves who'd come across her would know who she is – and what great service she has done our people.'

'What happened then? Did she stay to live with the Dwarves?'

Ardhoniel did not wait to hear the answer to the girl's question. Instead, she quietly excused herself as she pushed back from the table, and rushed out of the room. She didn't care what her exit must have looked like, did not care about anything but the Dwarf's words, repeated over and over in her mind, the silver bead resting at the back of her neck burning into her skin. She did not want to think of what the Dwarf's words could mean, did not want to dare consider that what he'd said could be true – and what the implications of that would be. All she wanted was to go back to Lothlórien, to bury herself in collecting herbs, cleaning bandages, emptying bedpans, and any other mundane task that would allow her to escape her past.

It had been many nights – many years – since she had allowed herself to cry over Thorin Oakenshield. Ever since her visit to Erebor, ever since her heartfelt conversation with Kíli, she had vowed to herself to shed no more tears on what was done. If not move on, at least she could do that. For _him_. And she had kept her vow, on most days by not allowing herself to think back on Thorin, on others by grounding her teeth together and forcibly pushing the tears back from her eyes, but she had managed. Until now.

'Ardhoniel?' She came to a reluctant stop, wiping at her eyes as she turned to face the Mirkwood Prince. ' _Why did you not tell him the truth?_ '

The Elleth tried to calm her emotions, but it appeared that they would not be held back any longer. As if a dam had burst, she found her arms flying up in the air as she exclaimed, desperately, ' _Because I'm not her, Legolas – you know I'm not. I'm not strong, or honourable, or any of those things that that Dwarf is speaking of! I didn't perform any great deeds! It was my friends who saved Fíli and Kíli. I didn't… I couldn't even save_ him…' She fell silent, overcome with grief. Closing her eyes, she finally allowed the full brunt of that fact wash over her. In the tsunami of her grief, Legolas' voice was like a lifeline, something to pull her back to the surface even if his question only served to further upset her.

' _Is it true?_ ' Legolas inquired curiously, and as she opened her eyes she found he had moved closer, his eyes roaming the area of her throat. ' _Did they give you his bead?_ '

The tears would no longer be pushed back and with her throat constricted, Ardhoniel simply nodded, moving her hand up to push back other strands of hair to reveal the braid that lay at the nape of her neck, clasped together by a silver bead – a reminder of who, at the very least, she had been at one point in her life.

He lifted his hand to examine the bead more closely, but froze in mid-air when another voice resounded through the darkened hallway, causing both Elves to jump. 'Lady Ardhoniel, are y…' Boromir fell silent, grey eyes shifting from her to the Elven prince, and then back. 'I apologise for interrupting. I merely came to see if you were all right; you left rather suddenly.'

Stepping back and quickly wiping at her eyes, the Elleth offered him a watery smile, hoping the dim lighting of the hallway would serve to hide her true state from him. 'I am, thank you for your concern, Lord Boromir. I was just retiring to bed; I wish you both a good night.' And with those words, she turned on her heel and quickly fled towards her room.

* * *

 **Note**. For those of you unfamiliar with the backstory of Galadriel's gift to Gimli, I shall give a brief overview. During the First Age of Middle-Earth, the Elf Fëanor created the Silmarils, three indescribably beautiful and magical jewels that contained the light and essence of the world before it became flawed. Needless to say these jewels were the cause of much strife and indeed much of what went wrong during the early years of the world could be attributed to this. Coming back to the jewels, it is said that Fëanor looked upon Galadriel's shining, silver-gold hair and used it as inspiration for the Silmarils. Enraptured as he was by the beauty of it, he begged Galadriel for a single strand of her hair three times – and three times she refused him, for Galadriel could look into the hearts of others and saw in his heart only fire and greed.  
When Gimli asked her for a strand, she acquiesced, for even without knowing the significance she knew he would treasure it with the purest intentions for the remainder of his life. And so it was that a Dwarf was granted three hairs when Fëanor, arguably one of the most important Elven figures of all time, was denied even one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Hello all and welcome back to the last chapter of the year! This year certainly has been a rollercoaster for me, but I'm very happy to be doing what I love. I hope you have all enjoyed everything I've put out this year and hope you will keep enjoying everything still to come. Now, for the last time this year, enjoy the story!

* * *

 **Chapter six: On the road again**

The next morning, Ardhoniel woke before the break of dawn, as was her habit. However, her sleep had been plagued with dreams of faraway places and familiar faces, something which had not happened in a long time. The events of the previous evening had upset her greatly, apparently enough so to break the fragile equilibrium she had managed to find over the past decades.

With nothing else to do – and an overwhelming desire to keep herself from thinking – she started packing for her return journey. Truth be told, there wasn't an awful lot to pack, for her journey with Bruihel had been unplanned to begin with. Some pouches of herbs and the golden-hilted knife were among her sole possessions to pack. Her most prized ones, however, had never left her person. Her mother's oval pendant hung securely around her neck, and Thorin's bead, seemingly more heavy than before, was tucked away beneath the mass of her hair.

The bead… While she had been determined not to think about it, it seemed her thoughts had once more returned to that single piece of jewellery. She had to remind herself that even if the Dwarf had been right the night before, even if it would have signified a courtship if Thorin had lived, the fact was that he had not. Thorin was dead, and the bead had been a gift from his nephews. Even if they had been aware of her growing feelings for their uncle, their giving it to her could never mean the same as it could have coming from Thorin. And even then, she knew that that future had never existed. If Thorin had lived, he would have become King under the Mountain and she… Well, she would have been nothing but their Elven guide – which was all that she was now.

She sighed, grabbing her things just as the door opened and in breezed the King's niece, Éowyn. 'Oh,' she emitted and stopped in her tracks, seemingly surprised. 'I came to wake you and tell you to pack anything you may need for the journey to Helm's Deep, but it seems my interference is not needed.'

'The sentiment is appreciated, my Lady, but I am not joining you to the fort. I have been away for a long time and it is high time I return to the forest.'

While her response was less disagreeable than Mithrandir's had been the previous day, the Lady of Rohan, too, seemed disapproving of this news. 'Surely you cannot leave now! These lands are no longer safe to travel idly, least of all by yourself.'

'I shall be fine; it is but a short distance to Lothlórien.'

'Pardon me for saying so, but while that may be true, it is a short distance crawling with Orcs and warbands! You and Lord Boromir were fortunate indeed to come upon my brother on your journey here.' Seeing her doubt, Éowyn continued, 'Come with us to Helm's Deep. When all is cleared, you can return home.'

Ardhoniel considered these words, finding that she could not find any true fault in their reasoning. It was not as if a couple of days would make a difference to her, and indeed she would much prefer not to run into any trouble along the way. While her heart begged her to return to the safety of the forest and to the mundane and predictable life she had left behind, it was hardly worth risking her life over. She sighed, 'Very well, I shall come with you.'

* * *

The caravan of people, animals, and cart was endless, and endlessly slow to move. They had departed from Edoras early in the morning, most carrying little more than the clothes on their back and what little provisions they could find for the road. At the front of the caravan, she knew was the King and his nephew, along with a small company of the Rohirric riders – which, when Ardhoniel thought of it, had had precious little time to spent at home indeed. The other riders, along with King's niece, were at the back of the line, making sure no one was left behind as they passed through the outstretched lands of Rohan.

Given that Boromir was still riding her horse, it had only seemed natural at the time that she should stay close to him and his companions, but as the morning dragged on she started to think she may have made the wrong choice after all. The strange company talked little and only amongst themselves – which truthfully she did not mind all that much, for she had little to say to any of them to begin with. It would, however, have been nice to break the tense silence that had befallen them at one point, but it appeared the only member of the company with whom an animated discussion could be held was the exact same one who she seemed to have offended the previous night. The Dwarf had given her an unimpressed look when she fell into step with them that morning, and had not given her a second glance ever since. When they had departed Edoras, she had expected – and dreaded, she must admit – to find Mithrandir with them, but the Istar was nowhere to be seen. Ardhoniel had made a mental note to inquire after his whereabouts to Aragorn at another time. When perhaps the tension was not so thick that she was able to cut it with a knife…

'It is a curious thing,' she started at last, in a final attempt to save herself from boredom, 'That she likes you so, Lord Boromir. Normally she cares little for carrying strangers on her back.'

'Pardon?' He asked, looking quite startled indeed as he glanced around him.

'Nimloth,' Ardhoniel gestured at the horse. 'She's been a loyal and most intelligent companion to me for many years, although I have found she is not fond of strangers. It appears she has made an exception for you.'

'Her name is Nimloth?' Boromir asked in surprise.

'It is.'

'The same as…-'

'The White Tree in Armenelos, yes. Although that is not what I named her for. As you can see, she is hardly white,' she touched her hand to the animal's dark side lovingly.

'Then what…?'

'She was the wife of Galathil,' another voice responded, and Ardhoniel looked around the horse to find Aragorn had pulled his own mount into step with them. 'Son of Beren and Lúthien.'

'And mother of Elwing,' Ardhoniel finished, realising the irony behind the situation as somehow that single name had brought the three of them together.

'Ah… An Elf.' The Gondorian fell silent, looking out over the fields, 'I must admit that as a child I may have often neglected my history lessons in favour of sword fighting.'

A soft smile spread across Ardhoniel's face as she was remembered of a young Elleth who had done just that – only to run off ten minutes later to learn to use a bow, and then to become a Healer, and the list went ever on. That had been many years ago, and yet somehow in the past seventy years it had started to feel like a lifetime. 'We have to choose and pick if we are ever to excel at anything.'

'That may be true, but it earned me more firm scoldings from my father than I care to remember.' He regarded her from on top of the horse, grey eyes searching her face as if he might find the answer to his next question there – and the action made Ardhoniel strangely self-conscious. 'What about you, Lady Ardhoniel. Did you always wish to become a Healer? I'm afraid I know little of Elven culture, but among my people it is common that young folk choose a profession early in life and spent most of their early years mastering it.'

'Some Elves do,' Ardhoniel said thoughtfully, 'There are indeed many with a true passion and they often stick to this profession throughout their lives. As for myself, I am afraid to say, I wasn't one of them. This day I wanted to become a scholar, the next a warrior.'

'And in the end you became a Healer.'

'Only an assistant. And a rather poor one at that.'

Boromir laughed at that, and peering around Nimleth she noticed even Aragorn was wearing a tiny smile. The conversation was left at that, and soon the caravan stopped for the afternoon meal.

* * *

That evening, after inspecting Boromir's wounds – and finding that, luckily, they had managed to remain closed during the travel – Ardhoniel had left the small group in search of something else to occupy her as they once again lapsed into thoughtful silence. Fortunately, with so many people of which many elderly or disabled, there was never a shortage of work, and soon she had found the Lady of Rohan who was handing out watery stew to the people of Edoras. The Elleth easily fell into pace with her, filling bowls, handing them out, and collecting empty ones to be refilled, and for a long time the females worked together without saying a word. When at last the pot had been emptied and the people fed, they collected the last of the bowls and went down to the small stream that ran by their resting place to wash off.

'I shall be glad when we reach Helm's Deep at last,' the Lady of Rohan spoke, breaking the comfortable silence that had hung between them as they completed their tasks. 'It makes me restless, to be so unprotected and out in the open. Helm's Deep has always been my people's refuge in times of war, and so it shall be once more.'

'What shall happen once we get there?'

'Those too old or young to fight shall hide in the caves. As for the others, we wait.'

'For what?'

'For war to find us.'

Ardhoniel regarded the Woman beside her in the orange light of the setting sun. There was a look of determination on her face, of anger, but there was no fear. In the warm light of the sun, her fair hair seemed aflame, and for the first time since meeting her Ardhoniel felt, more than anything else, that Éowyn was no ordinary Woman. 'Will you fight?'

'I'm Rohirric, Lady Ardhoniel. These lands have never known peace; and like all of my people, I have learned from an early age that evil does not distinguish between Man, Woman, or child. If there is to be war then let me do my part in it. However,' she said, as she got to her feet, stacked bowls in hand, 'I'd much rather we have no need of my skills – nor yours.' She nodded, and with that, she left the Elleth by the little stream.

When at last Ardhoniel also returned to the camp, the sun had set and many of the people had already attempted to find some rest under the stars. When she reached the familiar circle of Aragorn and his friends, she was surprised to find the Dúnedan, of all people, was still awake. Having lived most of his time in the Wild, she would have expected him to have no difficulty to find rest out here.

' _You look troubled_ ,' she observed, as she sat down beside him, effectively breaking him from his daze. Her eye fell on the silver pendant that hung from his neck, ' _I believe I should congratulate you. My sister informed me of your betrothal when she was last in Lothlórien_.'

' _That was many years ago_ ,' Aragorn recalled, a forlorn expression on his face, 'Much has changed since then.'

'Has your heart?'

'Never. But my partaking in this quest, if I am to return from it at all, will allow me to ignore my heritage no longer,' he spoke grimly, taking another puff from his pipe, as if all that had to be said had been.

'I don't… Aragorn, what is this quest everyone keeps speaking of?'

It took him very long to respond and when he did, his grey eyes held hers for the longest of times through the pipe smoke. There was a heavy weight behind his gaze, such as she had never seen before even in the solemn Ranger. She couldn't help the shiver that ran down her back when at last he spoke. 'The One Ring was found.'

Her lips parted in surprise, for of all things this may have been the last she had expected. Stories of the Ring of Power had been passed into legend, as had the object itself. Among mortals, only few knew that it had ever truly existed, and even among the Eldar few lived who remembered it. 'What? Who…?'

'Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.'

'Bilbo?!'

'I forgot you are acquainted with him, I apologise. He found it years ago in the cave of a creature named Gollum underneath Goblin Town, and it had been in his possession for many years after, prolonging his life.'

Dear Bilbo, she thought, her mind drifting back across the years to the brave little Hobbit who had stood against Orcs, dragons, and even a rather foolish Dwarven King. If he had picked it up during their capture in Goblin Town, it must mean he'd already had it even before they had entered Mirkwood. A memory stirred, and the Elleth frowned. ' _Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_ ,' she mumbled, the memory hazy, the words nearly forgotten. Those had been the words she had heard whispered in the dark recesses of the forest. And which had seemingly slipped her mind soon after. 'How blind I was.'

'We were all blind,' Aragorn spoke in ways of comfort. 'It lay in his possession for these many years, until at last it was discovered by Gandalf eighteen years ago. After ascertaining the true nature of it, a council was called by Lord Elrond, for the free people of Middle Earth to decide its fate.'

'What was the conclusion?'

'It is to be destroyed, in the fires of Mount Doom. That was our quest.'

'Was?'

'We set out with nine companions from Rivendell. Gandalf fell in the depths of Moria, Boromir we nearly lost on the shores of Nen Hithoel, but luckily both were returned to us. As for our other companions, we were less lucky. Merry and Pippin were caught during the battle near Amon Hen. Frodo and Sam's path also diverged from ours from that point onwards, and now they make their way to Mordor on their own. The Valar can only tell whether they will succeed.'

Ignoring the chill his words caused, she forced her mind away from the two Hobbits on their way to the lands of Sauron, and back to the Dúnedan. 'And what will happen now? For you and your companions I mean.'

'I am not certain,' he admitted, and when her eyes met his, Ardhoniel found a vulnerability there that she was not familiar with in him – and it made her heart soften towards the Man.

* * *

 **Note**. To understand the irony behind the name of Ardhoniel's horse, we need only look at the lives of each of the conversation partners. Boromir is from Minas Tirith, were grows a descendent of the tree of Armenelos (Númenor). Aragorn is a mortal Man who is betrothed to an Elven lady, reminiscent of the story of Beren and Lúthien.. And then there is Ardhoniel, who is a granddaughter of Elwing (and of Beren and Lúthien more distantly, of course).

 **Author's** **Note:** I wish you all a very happy new year and hope to see you all back in the New Year!


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Welcome back to the seventh chapter of this story already. I hope you enjoyed your holidays. I for one am simply happy to get back to work, for I dislike the chaos and social obligations the holiday season brings. But alas, let's get on with the story (and don't forget to tell me your thoughts!).**

* * *

 **Chapter seven: A frightening realisation**

That night, despite having walked for many hours during the day, Ardhoniel was unable to find any rest. Whether it had anything to do with the foreboding conversation she'd had with Aragorn and the mention of the One Ring, she wasn't sure, but whatever the reason was, fact was that a nervous tension had kept her up all night. When a new day finally dawned on the lands of Rohan, the Elleth was tired, annoyed, and more than a little grouchy as she hastily stuffed her things back into the saddlebags on Nimleth's back.

Like the day before, the caravan started out not long after the first light of the new day touched the lands of Rohan, and like the day before, Ardhoniel found herself almost automatically falling into step with the curious company of Aragorn. This particular morning, she found herself right between the Rohirric mount of Aragorn, and her own horse carrying Boromir. As they passed through the outstretched lands of Rohan, she listened with a sort of detached interest as the two Men discussed their destination and all the strategic and technical aspects of the fortress. Of course, as always, the temporary peace could not last, and soon a horse came galloping up to them, cutting in so that it fell into step right between Aragorn and Boromir – and forcing the Elleth to move behind them.

'Helm's Deep is not far away now,' Éomer announced to them, and Ardhoniel made it a point to glare daggers at the back of his helmed head. 'The King has asked for your advice upon arrival as we prepare the fort for the upcoming battle.'

Aragorn nodded his head in understanding, and Boromir muttered some words of agreement. Apparently satisfied, Éomer nodded to the Dwarf and Legolas – conveniently and perhaps wisely ignoring the foul-tempered Elleth behind him who had snorted, rather impolitely, at his remark – before he urged his mount forward.

The embittered look on her face lasted a moment longer as she stared at the Man's retreating back, and when she finally broke her gaze, she found Boromir staring at her with a curious look.

'What is it?'

'Nothing,' the Man responded to her bite, hands raised in surrender, 'I was merely wondering what could be the cause of your evident displeasure with Lord Éomer.'

Ardhoniel had to keep herself from bristling even at the mention of the Man. While surely not specific to the King's nephew, it could not be denied that he embodied many of the traits which she loathed about the race of Men. On their first meeting, he had been quick to dismiss her rightful objections on behalf of Lord Boromir as the frailty of a female – even while, in the end, still taking her advice, she should add, for their pace had most definitely been slower on the second day of their journey to Edoras. Just now, he had been quick to dismiss any experience either Legolas or the Dwarf – and even she herself – might have been able to offer, for the sole reason that he thought his own race superior to that of Elves and Dwarves alike. She scoffed, 'He is arrogant to think his are the only people that have experience with war.'

'And that is the sole ground of your dislike for him? Because I believe you were already glaring at him before the Man even opened his mouth.'

'Oh I wouldn't dare,' she grounded out, her eyes burning with an ire akin dragon fire at his obvious accusation. 'I am but a silent and thoughtful Elf, after all. Is that not your opinion of my race, too?!'

'So then your disregard of him – of _me_ – is nothing but the product of your own wounded pride?' Boromir fell silent, but his grey eyes did not yet let go of hers, keeping them locked even as the fire in his orbs turned to silent resignation. At last, he ripped his gaze away from her, apparently thinking better of wasting any more words on her, and returned it to the road ahead.

Grounding her teeth, it was all she could do not to make another biting remark, and instead the Elleth, with a small sound of annoyance, slowed her step until she at last fell back into step with the lady Éowyn and another young Woman who she did not know but thought she'd seen once or twice back in the King's court in Edoras. Éowyn offered her a small, sympathetic smile but wisely said nothing.

* * *

Ardhoniel spent the remainder of the morning's walk in Éowyn's silent company, and when the time came for a short rest and a light afternoon meal – and her annoyance had cooled considerably – she once again offered her help to the young Woman, who gladly accepted.

Like the previous evening, they worked in silence for a while, both content in the easy companionship they found in one another. For her part, Ardhoniel was simply glad to be around someone who did not ask her any difficult questions, who did not force her to confront parts of herself and her past that she was not ready to. As for Éowyn's apparent liking for the Elleth, it was not difficult to imagine she was starved for female company. Indeed, from what Ardhoniel had seen of the court of Edoras, it seemed to be very much dominated by males. She had learned that the Woman who had been by the Lady's side that morning, and who she had recognised from Meduseld, was Éowyn's chambermaid – and as such, following proper etiquette, did not offer the young Woman much in terms of conversation. Moreover, although her knowledge of their culture was limited, the Elleth was well-aware of the prejudice Men in general held against their female kin – and could only imagine the utter aggravation the King's niece must feel on a daily basis.

'While I do not know the nature of your travels here, I cannot help but remark on the strange composition of your company,' Éowyn remarked with a small smile, as Ardhoniel returned with a pile of empty bowls, and she noted the Lady's gaze was resting on the familiar Dwarf – whose name she had learned was Gimli, although that did little to explain his familiarity to her. 'Indeed, many of these people had yet to see an Elf in their lives and now they have had the honour of not seeing one but two. Tell me, are you of the same kin as my Lord Legolas?'

'In the loosest sense, I suppose. But no, Legolas is of the Woodland Realm, whereas I hail from the other side of the Misty Mountains.'

It took a moment for her meaning to register, then Éowyn's eyebrows drew up in interest. 'You are from Rivendell? I heard Lord Aragorn was raised there, is this true?'

'It is.'

'Surely a Man living amongst Elves is not a common thing. You must have known him before this quest?'

Ardhoniel momentarily looked up from the bowl she had been filling, finding Éowyn's grey eyes already on her. Quickly averting her gaze, the Elleth returned to the task as she considered her reply. The truth was that she had, quite without meaning or wanting to, picked up on the young Woman's interest in the Dúnedan over the course of their short acquaintance. While she was uncertain as to the sentiment behind it, she feared for the outcome. Éowyn was a good Woman, stout of heart and pure of intention. If her interest in the Ranger was indeed of the romantic kind, she knew the Lady was bound for heartache. If her interest in the Ranger was indeed such, Ardhoniel knew she should attempt to discourage any emotional attachment from the Lady's side.

She should identify him as her sister's betrothed. That would have been the right thing to do. And although she knew this rationally, she felt herself severely disinclined to do so. For the last decades, she had been hiding from her own emotions, too much of a coward to face her own heartache, let alone that of someone else. 'A little,' she spoke at last, slowly. Guilt gnawed at her even as she looked up, reconnecting with Éowyn's gaze with an deceptively empty expression. 'Why do you ask, my Lady?'

Her question was met with silence at first, and Ardhoniel watched as the young Woman stilled her hands, gazing at them as if in deep thought. Her answer, when it at last came, was simple like hers had been – and Ardhoniel decided to show her the same courtesy that had been shown to her by not asking further questions. 'He seems like a good Man.'

'He is.'

* * *

With the midday meal out of the way, the caravan of refugees had soon started out on the last leg of their journey, everyone eager to get to the fort – or at the very least to leave the open fields. The same could be said for the small group of females that walked near the back of the long line, theirs a silent but comfortable companionship. For Ardhoniel, talking to Éowyn had brought back thoughts of her sister, and she found herself for the first in a long time wondering, truly wondering, how the older Elleth was doing. She had not seen or heard from her ever since that summer in Lothlórien, but even that had been many years ago. While the two had never been particularly close, it made Ardhoniel sad to realise that they truly were no longer part of each other's lives. Simultaneously, she realised that the lack of contact with Arwen – and indeed with all members of her family – could hardly be attributed to her sister.

All of a sudden, the low buzz of a great many moving feet and the muffled speech of a great many owners was pierced by a bone-chilling howl. The people of Edoras came to a stop, a moment of silence following before low whispers broke out, each person trying to look over the heads of those in front of them to catch a glance of what was going on.

Ardhoniel stood rooted to her spot, flashes of a dark night and creeping shadows with flashing eyes and sharp teeth playing before her mind's eye. Confused terror took hold of her, freezing the blood in her veins, and she was hardly aware of a voice calling her name.

Suddenly, there was a soft hand on her arm, and Éowyn started pulling her through the crowds. It felt like hours before they finally managed to push their way through the crowd, and when they arrived at the front of the line, King Théoden and many of his Men were already mounting their horses, a grim look on each of their faces. Ardhoniel was vaguely aware of the young Woman by her side arguing with the King, but was unable to assign any meaning to their words. Her gaze drifted over the faces of the Riders, some young, some older, all etched with that same tiredness. And then her eyes met more familiar faces, and it was like a bucket of cold water was dunked on her, and she suddenly awoke from her daze.

'Aragorn?' She called out to the Dúnedan, bewildered, as he too started to mount his horse. 'What's going on?'

He turned in his saddle and his grave eyes found hers. 'Wargs from Isengard. Stay with Éowyn; stay safe, Ardhoniel.'

She nodded dazedly, and it was only after watching him follow the other Riders that the thought of asking him to do the same entered her mind. Around her, the throng of people started moving; those who would fight moving out of the way as the others started to make the last leg of the journey under the command of Lady Éowyn. The Elleth was about to join the latter group when she spotted him – and the dazed confusion made room for irrational anger as she pushed her way through the crowds to the Man who was currently mounting her horse.

When he noticed her approach, he stalled in his movement and turned to her with a look of sheer determination.

'What are you doing?' She demanded as she came to a stop in front of him, white-hot anger colouring her voice and setting her recently frozen limbs on fire. 'You'll get killed!'

'If it is my time, so be it. They need all the able-bodied Men they…-'

'Which you are not,' she interjected, a desperate note to her voice which she hoped would get lost in the wind and chaos around her. Biting her lip, she pushed through the sudden constriction in her throat, using her previous anger as a shield for the sudden wave of blind panic that was threatening to pull her under. 'I did not save your life only for you to foolishly throw it away.'

'I would rather die honourably on the battlefield now than live another fifty years in cowardice!'

A horn sounded in the distance – or perhaps it was not so far away at all, she thought later – and when Boromir returned his gaze to hers, it was no longer burning with anger, but only with fierce determination. 'My life is not yours to decide what to do with, Lady Ardhoniel. I will find you in Helm's Deep once this is over.'

With those words of parting – that almost promise – he left her standing in the quickly emptying fields. A moment longer she stared at his retreating figure, fear and anger battling for the upper hand, before she forced her feet into motion to catch up with the caravan of refugees.

Torn though she felt by her conflicting her emotions, it took her long legs not long to catch up with those of the old and young, the sick and weary of Edoras. As she fell into step at the back of the caravan, she couldn't help but take note of the poor condition many of the people of Rohan were in – nor the thought that if war was indeed to find them, which she now had no doubt it would, they were lucky if they lasted more than an hour against the strength of the enemy. She thought of Aragorn, of Boromir, of Legolas, and even of the Dwarf Gimli, and found herself hoping they would even make it to the stronghold in one piece. Although they all seemed to be mighty warriors in their own right, she more than anyone knew even the mightiest warrior could be felled.

Curiously enough, as she considered the fate of all of these individuals, Ardhoniel found in hindsight that at the time her own place and fate had hardly seemed important – so little so, in fact, that it did not even occur to her to consider the possibility that if the people of Rohan would fall, so would she. However, when she thought to consider this matter later when they had passed through the heavy gates of Helm's Deep, she found that the idea of death did not frighten her as much as it once did. As it should have. And that was a frightening realisation in itself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to the eighth chapter of this sequel story already. As the title of this piece already suggests, it will contain many (expected and unexpected) arrivals as Ardhoniel and the others prepare for the looming war. I would also like to use this moment to point out that while the story is now quite gloomy and will likely remain more gloomy than _Bâhukhazâd_ , something big is coming up that will change the course of the story. With that being said, enjoy this chapter! (:**

* * *

 **Chapter eight: Many arrivals**

The stronghold of Helm's Deep was a very depressing place indeed. While its walls stood high and thick, they were also covered with hanging moss, the stone lined with age and wear – and making evident that whatever victories the fort had seen, they had been long-passed. As the people of Edoras spread out like water, filling every nook and cranny of the Deep, Ardhoniel allowed herself a moment of peace to take in her new surroundings before going to volunteer her services to the Lady of Rohan once again. Although the Woman interacted with and guided her people with an admirable calm and poise, there was only so much one person could do.

'Ardhoniel?!'

She turned, only just in time to catch a bundle with blonde hair and pale skin that propelled itself at her. However, the Elleth did not need to see her face to recognise the female that had somehow found her way back to her. 'Bruihel?' She smiled despite the situation. 'Why, I dare say you are the last person I had expected to find here – and yet I feel like I should have.'

She nodded, 'Word reached Walstow that the people of Edoras were making for Helm's Deep. With the increasing number of Orc attacks, it made only sense for us to come as well.'

'Us?'

'Sefa and her children and grandchildren,' she gestured behind her, where Ardhoniel now noticed the Woman in question, as well as several other familiar and unfamiliar faces were standing, clearly waiting for the Elleth with whom she was currently speaking. 'I cannot help but wonder why you are here, however, my friend. I thought you had gone back to Lothlórien.'

'That was my intention. However, I… something came up. I shall tell you about it later; go back to your family.'

Bruihel nodded and made to leave, before she turned back to Ardhoniel and offered her a mirthless smile. 'It is good to see you Ardhoniel, even though the circumstances are, once more, less than ideal.'

'Indeed,' she smiled, the first genuine in a long time. 'Let us vow that next time we meet, it is in happier times.' She watched as the younger Elleth moved further into the stronghold with the human family – her family – before she herself went off in search of the Lady of Rohan. When she found her, Éowyn was directing several of the younger, able-bodied Women to clean up a large room in the heart of the fort. Her face was covered by a light sheen of sweat and her eyes looked tired, but she nevertheless offered the Elleth a smile on her entrance.

'It's good that you should find _me_ , my Lady, for I was indeed just thinking about sending someone to find _you_ ,' she said, pushing a loose strand of blond hair from her face. 'I have some of the Women set up this chamber as a makeshift Healing House. Bandages, fresh water… am I missing something? I'm afraid I never had much of a penchant for the art of healing.'

'A healer,' she supplied, 'Or at least someone with some basic knowledge of wound treatment.'

A soft smile played on the Lady's tired face, 'Ah but that's what I called you in for, my Lady. I already sent my maid out to find our own Healer and her assistant, but it may not be…' She caught herself, the smile that now appeared on her lips more forced than the previous one as she rephrased. 'More hands are always welcome.'

'Of course,' she acquiesced, for once not arguing her own limited experience. Taking a step forward, she took hold of the tired Woman's arm gently. 'Is there anything else I can do for you, Éowyn? Anything…-'

A horn cut off the rest of her sentence, and she noticed Éowyn had stood straighter at the sound, a flash of hope passing over her face before it was carefully tucked away behind a composed mask. 'The Riders have returned. Come on.'

And so she was left to follow in the Lady's footsteps once more – and it was a good thing too, for when they neared the gate many of the people of Edoras had gathered there, and they only parted for them when they recognised Éowyn. Even so, by the time they had made it to the Riders, the Men had started unsaddling, making the task of finding their friends and family all the more difficult.

Ardhoniel quickly spotted the King and his nephew, luckily both unharmed. Not far from them she found Legolas, his fair hair and tirelessness putting him in sharp contrast with the other Men. Looking decidedly less fresh although at the very least unharmed was the Dwarf standing next to him. The axe he was leaning on was sleeked with black Orc blood, and his face was uncharacteristically solemn as his eyes found her and Éowyn. She did not have time to truly think of the reason, however, for then her gaze connected with her horse and its rider, whose hand was clutched tightly to his side and had yet to descend. She rushed forward, hardly aware that Éowyn was following behind.

Nimloth neighed in greeting when she approached, alerting Boromir – and causing him to drop his hand and force the grimace from his face. 'My Lady.'

'You're hurt.'

'I shall live,' he said grimly, 'However…-'

'Where is Lord Aragorn?'

The Lady's question drew her attention away from the injured Gondorian, for the first time registering the absence of the Dúnedan. Dread filled her as her eyes flashed back to the solemn-looking Dwarf, then to Boromir's grim face, to finally come to rest on the other Elf in the company, desperately begging him to deny what she knew in her heart to be true. When his blue eyes met hers, they were filled with a sympathy that told her all she needed to know.

'He fell,' said Gimli with difficulty, confirming what she already knew. Despite this, hearing the words spoken aloud was even worse – for it made it real. The only heir of Isildur was no more. Instead of thinking of the implications for the throne of Gondor, however, her mind turned towards her sister, and she felt her heart break in her stead.

' _Im naer. My heart is with you and your sister._ '

She only nodded at the Ellon, still too overwhelmed by the news to offer any words in response. He clasped her shoulder in sympathy before moving past her.

Ardhoniel didn't know how long she stood there, staring past the moving bodies of Men and Women, harmed and unharmed, when at last a hand softly touched her arm. Looking up, she found it was Boromir, Nimloth no longer in sight, his hand again clutched to his side.

Understanding what he needed, she merely nodded, leading him back to the chamber that had been set up as a make-shift Healing hall. She made quick work of the blood-soaked bandages that covered his torso, finding that fortunately the wound had not ruptured completely, before sewing it back closed. Many Men followed after him, some with minor slashes to arms or legs, others with wounds so heinous that on any other day she would have felt sick at the mere sight of them. On that day, however, the gore, the stench of blood and death, and the screaming all blurred together to the extent that she could hardly tell where one wound ended and the next began. When all was over, the sun had long since descended – and she realised with a detached sort of surprise that it must have been many hours since the Riders' return.

Wiping her bloodied hands on a rag, she allowed her gaze to wander around the room. Much of the earlier chaos had died down, with the less gravely injured having been sent back out after being treated, and only the critically wounded still occupying the straw cots that lined the chamber's walls. Her eyes lingered on the Man closest to her.

He had lost the lower part of his right leg to the vicious teeth of a Warg and had only survived so long due to quick thinking on the part of the King's nephew, who had cut off the blood flow below the knee with his belt. Even so, the blood loss had been tremendous, and the Man had been hallucinating even before he was brought to her. Thankfully he had lost consciousness shortly after, and while still running a high fever, at least seemed to be blissfully unaware of his physical state for the time being. She did not know if he would last the night and, if so, what kind of life he would have after all this. He was only just on the cusp of maturity…

Overcome by exhaustion, the Elleth allowed herself to drop down on the sole chair that lined the wall beside her charge. There was little she could do for any of them now, but at least this way she would be nearby if something changed, she argued. About the fact that she preferred to be among the wounded and dying over being outside where she would be forced to face her own loss, she tried not to think.

* * *

It was in this same position that Aldwyn, Edoras' healer, found her in the morning, golden head resting on her knees as her mind drifted somewhere in that state between sleep and wakefulness. She gratefully accepted the offered bread, before going to check on her patients.

The night had been quiet, with little to no change for the worse – but also not for the better. With the morning light illuminating every bruise, cut, and wound, the Men of Rohan possibly looked even worse than the day before. Even so, they had survived the first night, which was usually the most critical.

Her optimism was somewhat doused when she stopped next to her last patient of the previous day. Unlike many of the others, he was still unconscious, and she did not need to touch his clammy face to know that his fever had yet to go down. Given the direness of his situation, she was surprised when his eyes shot open as she moved in to change the wet cloth that was pressed to his forehead.

Hiding her own shock, she offered him what she hoped was a comforting smile. 'Good morning. How are you feeling today?'

'How… What…' His eyes searched the room frantically, his breathing laboured, as he attempted to sit up. 'Rhoswyn, where is Rhoswyn? I need to see her, I have to…-'

With a gentle hand, she pushed the weakened Man back down. 'You need to lie down. Rest. If you tell me your name, I shall make sure Rhoswyn is brought here.'

By the end of her speech, his eyes had already drifted shut again, overcome by exhaustion. Returning to her initial task, the Elleth soaked the cloth in a basin of water nearby, before replacing it on the unconscious Man's forehead. She wondered who he was, and who the female was that he had mentioned, but knew that she would not get any answers from him now.

As it turned out, she would not have to wait too long for her answers, for it was only several work-filled hours later when the lady Éowyn entered the chamber. She looked even more worn than the day before, as if she had not had a wink of sleep that night. Her face was pale and eyes bloodshot, and her expression was that of tired resignation. Even so, when the lady's eyes met Ardhoniel's across the room she managed a tired smile before making her way over to the Elleth.

'I've heard of the tirelessness of the Eldar, yet I cannot help but be surprised to find you here again, Lady Ardhoniel.'

'They needed me,' Ardhoniel said simply, not wishing to divulge the true reason she had not left the makeshift Healing House. 'But I had not expected to find My Lady here so early.'

'My Uncle and brother are taking council concerning the defence of the fort. It was suggested my services would be of more use for the wounded.'

All this was spoken through tight lips and a small frown. Yet, the Lady of Rohan offered no verbal expression of her seeming displeasure with the decision, and so Ardhoniel decided to let it pass. Instead, she nodded. 'That is very well, my Lady, for I indeed find myself in need of your help in one particular matter.' Turning, she retraced her steps towards the Man at the far corner of the room. He did not stir at their approach, and when she faced Lady Éowyn, she found a similar look of worry etched on the young Woman's fair features. 'He was brought in yesterday after losing his leg to a Warg. From what I have heard, it is through quick thinking on your brother's part that he survived long enough for me to even treat him, but I fear it may not be enough. He has lost much blood and the risk of infection is high. He has been unconscious for most of the night, except for one instance when I made to change the wet cloth on his face. He asked for a female, Rhoswyn, though I dare say I have no knowledge of who she is. Regardless, I think it may be good to identify him and find his relatives. In case…' She cleared her throat, looking away from his still face as if it would mask the dread she felt. 'Might you help me, my Lady?'

Éowyn nodded, her face seemingly even paler as she regarded the unconscious Man. 'His name is Leofdred. son of Leofden. Rhoswyn is my chambermaid. They were… they are to be married in two moons.'

'Oh… I'm s…-'

'I shall have her fetched immediately,' Éowyn said, turning on her heel. Gone was the vulnerable look and back was the King's niece, the leader of people. 'Is there anything else you require for the treatment, Lady Ardhoniel?'

While there were many things that she would have liked, it was very unlikely the Lady Éowyn would be able to provide any of them. An answer to the negative had yet to leave her tongue when the doors to the hall burst open – and in came the most unexpected pair of visitors.

Bruihel was stooped a little to the left to accommodate the Man she half-accompanied, half-dragged in their direction, but it seemed that fact, nor the Man's state, had yet to dampen her mood. Indeed, she seemed right in the middle of recounting some tale or another, and seemed to enjoy it mightily so. Aragorn, who was looking battered and dishevelled even for his standards, was merely smirking – whether from pain or from a joke that was obviously at his own expense, Ardhoniel did not know. Éowyn, too, did not seem to know what to think about the situation, and therefore both females gazed on in confusion as the pair approached them.

'Look who I ran into just now,' Bruihel announced as she neared them. 'Tried to pretend he was all right, too.' She shook her blonde head, dropping the Man unceremoniously down on the chair Ardhoniel had used as her resting place that night.

'But… how? The Men said…'

'Only the Valar may know, milady,' Bruihel said, frowning down at the Man, 'Although I dare say it has been a _very_ close call.'

'I am all right,' Aragorn objected, though he sounded exhausted and looked, for all intents and purposes, more dead than alive.

'Of course, _mellon nin_.'

'You are friends?' Immediately regretting her slip, Éowyn dropped her head, 'I apologise. My Uncle speaks the language of the Elves and taught me some when I was a little girl. I couldn't help but…-'

'We know each other,' Aragorn amended, politely letting the uncomfortable moment slide.

'You wound me. And here I thought that after fighting together for several years we would be friends.'

'Fought together?'

'Oh yes. Now there is a story I'm sure he won't mind me telling – for I should not wish to spoil the ending to you, milady, but it did end with him going to Gondor and becoming an advisor for the Steward. I daresay it was about fifty years ago, when I was travelling along the Entwash with a… dear friend when…-'

Realizing the recounting of the tale may take the ladies some time, albeit a bit curious herself, Ardhoniel stepped up to Aragorn, taking a firm, but careful hold of his upper arm where blood was still oozing from a large gash. Taking up a bowl of water and a rag from a nearby table, she made a soft noise as she completely took in the sorry state the Dúnedan was in for the first time. 'You have been lucky indeed, if what I hear is true.'

'Not mere luck,' he replied softly, the hand of his unwounded arm going up to touch the jewel that rested at his throat.

'How is she? I regret to say I haven't been very good at maintaining the bonds with my family these past decennia.'

'Fading,' Aragorn spoke earnestly, and both the tone as what he was conveying caught Ardhoniel off guard, temporary stilling the hand that had up until now been dabbing the blood from his wounds. 'The light of the Eldar was already leaving her when we last met in Imladris.'

'Light… She chose then as my father's brother before her.' At Aragorn's nod, she turned away, lest the perceptive Dúnedan saw the wounded expression on her face. Of course she had always known of the great choice bestowed on their bloodline. And yet, knowing and truly considering it was something else entirely. She had known, and yet it had felt so distant that at times it was easy to pretend it was nothing but a fairy tale. She had never truly considered it an actual choice to make – let alone that one day, one of her siblings may make it. However, if the news of Arwen's choice wounded her, it was nothing like the pain she felt at knowing her sister had not thought to inform her.

Pushing down the hurt, she turned back to her task, careful to keep up a façade of calm. 'I see,' she said simply, as she now turned to a gash on the Man's head.

'You did not know?' He deduced.

'I did not.'

It was at this exact moment that the blow of a horn reached their ears and both Elves and the Man turned their face towards the sound. A moment of silence followed, before Bruihel spoke, a large grin pulling at her lips. 'The Galadhrim *****.'

Im naer ~ I'm sorry  
Ellon ~ Male Elf  
Mellon nin ~ My friend

 ***** As this story is sort of a hybrid between the books and movies (and then some OC'ness), I did not originally plan to have the Elves march to Helm's Deep because… well, because it wasn't in the books and they did have more than enough on their own plate at this moment. However, I figured with Ardhoniel being there, and Galadriel _knowing_ she is there, the Lady of the Forest would not leave her granddaughter to her fate. And so I figured she would send aid.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm very curious to hear your opinion about (the return of) Bruihel!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to chapter nine! Many thanks to for reviewing chapter eight. Personally, I think Bruihel was one of the greatest OCs in _Bâhukhazâ_ _d_ , so I am glad to be able to bring her back. Very curious to hear all your thoughts on her.**

 **Now, on with the story!**

* * *

 **Chapter nine: Night fall**

The four of them had rushed out immediately after, Aragorn's wounds seemingly magically healed at the sound of that familiar horn. The others soon learned the reason for the Dúnedan's relief, as he filled them in on what he had seen on his way to the fort.

'Ten thousand?' Bruihel had repeated in disbelief, while they weaved in and out of crowds to make it to the gate. It was at this point that they met up with Legolas and Gimli, who seemed to be making for the same destination. Curiously, instead of moving on immediately as she had expected, Ardhoniel watched as the Ellon clapped a hand gently on Aragorn's shoulder.

' _I was wrong to doubt you,_ Aragorn. _F_ _orgive me._ '

' _Ú-moe edhored,_ Legolas,' he responded with a shake of his head and a small smile on his lips. 'Come, let's see what is happening down at the gates.'

When they arrived, the sun had started its descend from the sky, and Théoden King, his nephew, Lord Boromir, and many other soldiers had gathered – and an army of Elves had appeared within the enforced gates. They were dressed in the golden armour and midnight blue capes that were characteristic of the Galadhrim, yet even without them, Ardhoniel would have recognised the Ellon at the front immediately. And knowing him – and especially his disposition – she was surprised when Aragorn stepped forward and wrapped the Elf in a one-armed hug with his good arm. 'You are most welcome, Haldir.'

Finally released, the Ellon nodded before he turned to Théoden King. 'I come in the name of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Long ago Elves and Men fought and died together. We come to honour that allegiance and fight alongside Men once more.'

'We are most grateful for your aid, Master Elf. If there is anything that you need before the battle, we should be happy to provide it where we can.'

Haldir bowed his head in thanks before motioning to one of his kin. Then, he turned back to the mismatched company of Elves, Men, and a Dwarf – and Ardhoniel was surprised to find the march warden's stern gaze on herself. ' _My Lady requested this be returned to you_.' As the words passed his lips, one of the Elves stepped forward and presented her with a bow. Her bow. For a moment, her fingers lingered above the polished wood, aching to wrap themselves around the familiar object and yet dreading it at the same time. It was a curious thing, she thought, that such a simple object could come to represent so complex a memory.

She finally accepted the weapon with an unsteady hand and a lump in her throat, and she hoped no one had noticed the hesitation as she stepped back in her place beside Bruihel, who gave her hand an inconspicuous squeeze.

Around them, the crowd started to dissipate and Ardhoniel was suddenly reminded of Éowyn's presence as the Woman stepped in front of the two Ellith. 'My Uncle has called the order to move the Women, children, elderly, and the wounded to the caves. Lady Ardhoniel, would you mind seeing that the wounded make it and are comfortable?'

'Of course.'

'I have to see to see to my family first,' Bruihel told the Woman, 'I'll come back to help when they are safely inside.'

The three females scattered after those words, each off to do their own part. They were thankless jobs for the most part, talking to people, listening to their concerns, and trying to calm them enough to prevent mass hysteria in the caves. More than thankless, it was emotionally draining, pulling apart families, comforting crying mothers and children, encouraging petrified fathers and sons – and both Bruihel and Éowyn found they would much prefer the brutal, but honourable task of fighting the battle over seeing to the victims of it.

For her part, Ardhoniel simply hoped that the move to the caves – let alone the decidedly unsanitary environment – would not affect the wounded too much. Many of them were by now well enough to make the move themselves, some even rejoining the battlements, but there was one in particular that she worried over. The Man who lost his leg, the one who was to marry Éowyn's maid, had yet to regain consciousness after that one moment in the morning, and she feared his condition would hardly benefit from the damp and chilled state of the caves. As it was, however, there was little to be done about it, and so she moved his unconscious body to the shelter with the assistance of the Healer's assistant, Ides.

When the task was done, she bid the girl stay with the wounded Man whilst she return to the temporary Healing House to collect any supplies that they may have need of. To be completely honest to herself, it was also an excuse to escape the confines of the cave for just a little longer. As one who was accustomed to live in the wild and open vastness of a forest, the idea of being underground did not sound appealing at all. And yet, that was not the only reason why she detested it so – although she was not ready to admit that to herself at that moment.

Even so, all the reluctance of the world could not keep the sun from setting and soon only the red light of dusk illuminated the empty room, and she knew it was time to return. Gathering the last of the bandages in her arms, she stepped out into the stone walkways of the fort. In a way, it appeared to be more confining out there than it had in the small room. The air was heavy with tension as she passed through the shadowed passages of the Deep, each Man she passed looking more petrified than the last. She could not blame them, and knew she would be at least equally so in their place. If what Aragorn had said was true, it was likely many of them wouldn't last the night – if any would at all.

'Lady Ardhoniel,' a familiar voice called, and she turned to find Boromir walking up to her. His sword was hanging from his belt, shield strapped to his back, and she noticed a chainmail peeking out from under his tunic. Apart from these obvious preparations, he looked relatively calm compared to the other Men she had passed. When he stopped in front of her, he frowned, 'Should you not be in the caves?'

'I was just on my way there.'

'Ah…' Silence fell and when she chanced a glance at his face, she noticed the Gondorian looked positively uncomfortable as he gazed at his feet.

'Well, then I'll just…-'

'There is something I wished to…-' As they both had started, both fell silent, and she motioned for him to continue with her free hand. 'I wished to apologise for my harsh words during our trek here; they were uncivil.'

'Yet not completely untrue,' Ardhoniel replied with a small smile. She was not sure whether he referred to their quarrel during the trek, where he had called her out on her grudge against Lord Éomer and, to a lesser degree, himself, or their strained parting before the Warg attack, but supposed it was all the same. In both instances, she had allowed her emotions to cloud her rational judgment, something which had rarely led to good decisions in the past. 'But in light of your apologies, I do suppose I owe you mine as well.'

'No I… well, I realised I never properly thanked you for saving me that day,' he interjected. Then, softer, almost as if not meant for her ears, he added, 'For a long time I was not sure if it was something I should be thankful for.'

Placing her free hand on his arm, she stopped the Gondorian with a comforting smile. 'You shall have plenty of time to thank me tomorrow.' Their eyes connected for a moment, and she knew that he understood her meaning without her saying so.

He nodded. Then, as if only now noticing, he looked down at the delicate hand that was still resting on his arm, and he took a step back, awkwardly clearing his throat. 'I should… Stay safe, my lady.' He bowed, rather stiffly, before taking his leave of her.

As she watched his retreat, Ardhoniel was not quite sure what to feel or think. She wished she could bid him to do the same, and yet knew it was impossible. Boromir, as well as Aragorn, Legolas, and even the Dwarf Gimli, would be in danger, and there was nothing she could do about it. Although she cared little for the horrors of battle, the idea of having to sit in shelter, waiting for the end – either for good or for bad – now somehow seemed even worse. Many of the Men out there she had met, some even befriended. Some she may see again, others may perish on the battlefield tonight, and she would have no way of knowing. No way of doing anything to help them. To save them.

She had tried it before. Save people. And the knowledge that she had failed had nearly destroyed her. And yet, standing by and doing nothing would be even worse.

'… Ardhoniel? Ardhoniel, _are you coming_?' Bruihel appeared before her, a concerned expression on her fair face. Only now Ardhoniel noticed the last Women and children had cleared from the passage, and night had fallen on the silent fort. 'Ardhoniel? _It is time to go_.'

'I cannot,' she said slowly, the words registering to her mind at the same time as they did to the other Elleth's. 'My whole life I swore not to be like our kin, who sit behind their walls and hide from the troubles of the world. But now I find that while they are not made of stone, I spent these last decennia hiding behind walls of my own creation all the same. I'm sorry, Bruihel, I cannot go to the caves.' Looking down at the bandages in her arms, she held them out to her kinswoman in an offering of peace – and well-wishing. 'I will see you when this is over.'

She was about to turn when Bruihel stopped her by her arm. For a moment, she thought the Elleth would try to change her mind, but she simply said, 'Éaden is out there. As is Sefwyn's husband, Haling. If you find them, please keep them safe. For me.'

'I will try.'

' _No i melain na le,_ Ardhoniel.'

'And with you, my friend.'

With these words the two friends parted, uncertain whether it would be only for the night or for eternity. As Bruihel made for the caves to return to her family, Ardhoniel reached back to feel the bow that she had strapped there earlier – at the time more to ease the transportation than out of any real inclination to use the weapon. For a moment, she pondered about how the bow should have curiously found its way back to her now when she needed it most. Whether by design or chance, however, she quickly realised that the weapon would do her little good without arrows.

Luckily, she had passed the arsenal multiple times in her trips from the Healing room to the caves that afternoon, and as such managed to locate the chamber with haste. Even so, by the time she opened the doors of the by now deserted arsenal, the air was heavy with the beat of a great many feet and the inhuman cries of thousands of Orcs. Refusing to allow herself to think about it, she grabbed one of the few remaining quivers from the self, stocking it with as many arrows as it would hold. Fastening it over her shoulder, she checked the knot that secured her sword sheet to her belt before leaving the silence of the chamber behind her.

Ú-moe edhored~ There is nothing to forgive  
No i melain na le ~ May the Valar be with you

* * *

 **Author's Note: A rather short chapter, I know, but I decided to break it here before any real "action". I am curious to hear your thoughts about this chapter, though; what did you think of Ardhoniel's decision?**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Welcome back to chapter 10 and thank you all for keeping up with this story. A special thanks to for reviewing last week's chapter, you rock! As this is a very action-packed chapter, I will not ramble on for too long and will simply say: enjoy (and don't forget to tell me your thoughts)!**

* * *

 **Chapter ten: Of heroes and great deeds**

The world outside was dark and cold, and filled with screams of battle and of pain – and in such sharp contrast to the quiet that had filled the fort before that it was difficult to imagine mere minutes had passed since then. And yet it couldn't be longer, for commands for volleys of arrows were still being called, the voices even among the chaos familiar to Ardhoniel's sensitive ears. Even as the arrows rained down on them, the Uruk Hai scaled crude metal ladders, their army so numerous that each fallen Uruk was replaced in a seemingly endless fashion.

The first beasts that crawled on top of the wall were of the same large breed as those they had encountered near Amon Hen, armoured in nothing but a helmet bearing the white hand of Saruman. Near her, one of the creatures grabbed hold of one of the archers – a boy only just on the cusp of adulthood – running its blade clean through his gut before dropping the lifeless body to the ground below.

For a moment Ardhoniel simply stood, watching the hopeless slaughter of Men and Elves as they attempted to withhold the tide. They were fathers, husbands, some even just sons, who had no choice but to fight. Even if Rohan would somehow win the battle, they would never return to their families anymore. Children who would never see their fathers again, wives forever robbed of their husbands, mothers who would never see their sons grow old.

And suddenly the creature's eyes found hers, and she forgot to be afraid. A white-hot anger pumped through her veins, and she found herself reaching for the bow on her back when an arrow of Elvish make whizzed through the air and firmly planted itself into the Uruk's skull. Properly shaken, Ardhoniel watched for a second longer as the carcass sank to the floor, before she shook herself and gazed around her. Everywhere around her, Men and Elves were battling the Uruks with all that they had. However, while she was certain to have heard Aragorn's voice mere minutes ago, there was no sign of her friends anywhere close now, and she knew chances were slim that she would find them in the thick of battle.

Taking a deep breath, the Elleth forced herself to calm, pushing down any emotions – worry, anger, all-paralyzing fear – as she gripped her bow more tightly. Another second passed, then, before any doubts could seize her and compel her to turn back, she rushed up the stairs, firing arrows at any Uruk that attempted to scale the wall nearby. They were too numerous to keep at bay, however, and soon she had to switch the bow for the more familiar grip of her sword, and she found herself thinking between slashes that she was glad Bruihel had forced her to keep up her practice. As if never having done anything else, she easily fell into step with the Man beside her, who despite his advanced age seemed to be skilled with his blade.

Even so, however, the push of the tide was undeniable, and with every Uruk they cut down seemingly two took its place. Ardhoniel didn't know how much time passed in such fashion, cutting down foe after foe, when she heard the scream. Administering a hard kick to the inner knee, she brought down her blade on the exposed neck of her opponent before swirling around to find the Man – her partner – on his knee. With a mighty cry, she threw herself at the creature about to deal the finishing stroke, separating his head from his shoulders in one fell swoop. Turning around, she found it was too late. The Man, whoever he had been, had fallen.

Looking around her for the first time, she found the wall was near overrun, only few warriors like herself left to fend off the endless stream of Uruk-Hai. That was when she saw him.

She wasn't sure what had made him stand out to her, for his hair was fair like that of all of his people and his armour was old and dented. Yet his fighting stance was familiar, and the way he swung his blade was with a grace and agility that she had not expected to find in a Man of Rohan.

Remembering her promise to Bruihel, Ardhoniel took up battle with a renewed strength, cutting down any Uruk that stood in her way of getting to Éaden. He and another Man who she presumed to be his brother-in-law were fighting in one of the last stations on the wall that was still resisting the force of evil, their backs to each other as they cut down Uruk-hai left and right. Where his style was smooth and efficient and clearly influenced by that of the Galadhrim, his companion's was sloppy, and more than once Ardhoniel glanced over to find Éaden cutting down a foe that was threatening to get too close to the other Man.

Gritting her teeth, she elbowed another Uruk in the face before swinging her sword into its shoulder. Pushing him off of the ledge, she noticed from the corner of her eye that one of the creatures was about to catch Éaden off guard, and she reached down her boot for the hidden weapon that sat there. In the same fluid motion as she drew it out, she swung the hunting dagger, its blade embedding itself in the Uruk's face. For a moment, Éaden looked bewildered at the creature that had dropped dead by his feet, before returning to his own battle. Several minutes passed in such fashion, the three warriors working side by side in felling as many Uruks as possible. When at last a short reprieve came, Éaden reached down, freeing the hunting dagger from the carcass and returning it to Ardhoniel handle-first.

'You should be more careful with these; I hear they are quite valuable.'

'They are,' she affirmed, tucking the weapon away once more and readying her blade for another wave of assault. 'My name is Ardhoniel.'

'Éaden, son of Éadig, at your service. This is Haling, my eldest sister's husband.'

The Man in question nodded tersely, and that was the end of their conversation. A new wave of Uruks passed over the wall, and they were fully emerged in battle again within seconds. However long they must have fought like this, Ardhoniel could not tell, although in hindsight she guessed it must have been a good long time indeed, for her arm was starting to feel the strain of the exertion – and she knew the Men by her side must be near dead on their feet. Perhaps that was the cause for what happened next. Perhaps it was simply bound to happen.

A loud gasp alerted her something was wrong, but it was only several minutes later, when her opponent fell at last, that she could turn around. When she did, she found Haling on the ground, clutching a large gash in his leg that was oozing blood even as his hands attempted to stem the blood flow in vain. Éaden was attempting to both see to him and keep at bay the wave of foes, two tasks that did not lend themselves to combination. Taking another glance at the wounded Man, Ardhoniel knew he stood no chance of survival out here.

'Take him to the Keep.'

'I can't leave,' he returned, not taking his eyes off of his current opponent.

'He's bound to bleed out if he stays here.'

'What about you?'

'I shall hold them off. Go.' And don't come back, she prayed. Whatever chance they had at surviving while hiding out in the Keep was surely greater than out here.  
Éaden held her gaze for a moment, as if seeing whether she would change her mind, then nodded. 'Watch your back.'

No more words were said as he hoisted his kin up, one arm wrapped over his shoulder as he half-guided, half-pulled Haling down to the ground level. The Elleth tried to cover for them as best she could, shooting arrows for as long as they were in sight, killing every Uruk that came their way. Soon they were out of sight, however, and she could only hope she had sent them to safety – and not to their deaths.

There was not much time to think about it, for another wave of Uruks presented itself, albeit seemingly less numerous than the last. Some kind of chanting rose up from the depths behind the wall, but she had neither the time nor the energy to focus on it. For now, all she could do was force herself to keep moving, to keep fighting, hoping that reprieve would come at one point. As such, she wasn't sure how it was that she caught Aragorn's cries, carried on the wind. ' _Dago hon! Dago hon!_ ' The meaning barely registered, but what happened next did.

One moment she was parrying the crude blade of one of the Uruks, the next she was airborne. Time seemed to stand still in those few seconds that she sailed through the air, her mind barely keeping up with what was happening as she gazed at the battle that unfolded below her upside down. Then she crashed into the hard stone underground, and the world went black.

When she came to, it was in chaos. Part of the wall she had previously been standing on had been blown away; a large gaping hole allowing the Uruk-hai free entry into the fort. Pushing back to her feet, Ardhoniel gritted her teeth as she tried to shake off the dizziness brought on by the crash landing. Around her, she noticed many of the Elves had gathered in an attempt to keep the Uruks from flooding into the deeper passages of the fort – and to the Women and children. If they had not been before, they were now truly fighting a losing battle. From all around, Uruks were pouring into the fort, the combined effort of Men and Elves doing little to hold them back now that they had a free entrance point. Even so, they fought with everything they had.

Gripping her own sword more tightly, Ardhoniel also readied herself as one of the creatures came for her. With a renewed strength – borne from a great hopelessness bordering on recklessness – she lost herself in battle. For however long she fought like this she couldn't quite tell, in part because of what happened shortly after.

Somewhere nearby, the order for retreat was given, and the Elleth prepared herself to make for the Keep with the few remaining others. She had just sank her blade in one of the Uruk-hai's guts when she was slammed from the side, and she found herself hitting what was left of a stone wall. World spinning, she opened her eyes just in time to see a sword being swung in her direction, and she swiftly jumped to the side. With her sword still being embedded in the dead Uruk's gut, she delivered a mighty kick to her foe's shin, using the distraction to drive one of her arrows in the base of its neck.

'Haldir!'

The cry somehow made it through the haze of battle, and she located the march warden on top of the wall, fighting a quickly losing fight. Pulling free her sword from the dead body, Ardhoniel took one step in the direction of the stairs when her legs buckled underneath her. A sudden wave of nausea hit her as she fell to her knees, and when she put a hand to her stomach, it came back covered in sleek, hot blood. Her own blood, she realised dazedly. She had not been fast enough.

Through her swimming mind and vision, she could only look on as one of the Uruks advanced on Haldir. The sound of battle faded to the background, making room for the pounding of her heart and her own laboured breathing. Before all went black, she thought of Éaden and Haling – and she hoped they had made it out safely.

* * *

Another deafening crash echoed between the high walls of the cave and all conversation hushed as the inhabitants gazed at one another in question – and fear. And rightly so, Bruihel knew, for every crash, each one closer than the one before, brought the enemy nearer to the entrance to the caves. By then, it would be like shooting sitting ducks, for there were many young, old, and sick among them, and too little with the skill to defend themselves. By then, she knew, the most they could hope for was a swift ending.

'They have not yet entered the Keep,' she said instead, relying on her sensitive ears in hopes to comfort her family. 'We are safe.'

But for how long? Nobody asked the question, but she knew it was on all of their minds. There was little else to think about, and yet the Women kept a brave face, holding their children and comforting them as if the same fears did not weigh on their own minds.

'I miss papa,' Sefwyn's youngest, Halen, said softly, 'I want to go to papa.'

'You can't go to papa now, my love, you know that. We have to stay here now; you can see papa later,' his mother explained in a soothing voice, though Bruihel could see the fear reflected in her eyes.

'But I want to see papa…'

'What do you say I tell you a story?'

The offer had the desired effect and the little boy quieted immediately, his attention now fully on her. A long time ago, when Éadig's children had been the age Halen was now, Bruihel would often entertain them with stories. Some simplified versions of the great tales of her people, some stories of her own life in Lothlórien. But the ones they had liked most, the ones she told most oft, were those of the adventures she had had with Éadig. Admittedly, they were also the ones she enjoyed most telling, as they reminded her of what had been undoubtedly the best years of her long life.

Sifting her mind for one appropriate for this moment, a tiny smile unwittingly found its way to her lips as she was reminded of the many adventures she had shared with the Man, some more dangerous than others. They had had each other though, and that had always been enough. With the exception of one occasion…

'Ah, I have just the one for you,' she started, forcing a cheery tone in her voice. 'It is about a brave young Man called Éadig and his loyal if a bit silly Elven companion, whom we shall call Breha for the time being.

'The year was 2969, and spring saw our great hero and his companion arrive in the great lands of _Rochand_. It was a beautiful country, with many outstretched grasslands and tiny streams. Its people was that of stout heart and strong arm, and Éadig felt immediately at home, for his ancestors hailed from this land. But Rochand was a land at war – not with any other kingdoms you see, but with a people, the _Gwathuirim_ , that lived in the mountains and felt they held claim to the lands.

'However, neither our hero nor his companion was aware of the strife that plagued the lands, and so it was that during their first night, their camp was beset by a group of the Gwathuirim. They awoke only just in time to grab their swords, but even our hero could not face up against twenty foes, mighty though he was.'

'What happened to them?' Éadred, Éaden and Wilfled's son asked, eyes wide in wonder.

'They were saved… by another hero. His name was Thorongil, and he was a mighty warrior in his own right. Though not a native, Thorongil had served the King of Rochand dutifully for many years by helping ward off the attacks of the Gwathuirim. It was by mere chance that he and his company of riders happened upon Éadig that night – but it was a good thing he did.

'Together with the newcomers, Éadig and Breha defeated their foes and after that night, the duo joined Thorongil's company and fought by his side for many more years. One of their missions brought them to the northern most part of Rochand in the fall of 2973, to a settlement that bordered a great forest. After securing the area, Thorongil and his company were invited to a feast in honour of their great deeds. This is where Éadig first saw her. A beautiful young woman, her golden hair braided back to reveal eyes of the bluest skies and a smile so sweet that he fell in love with her that very instant.

'Without losing another second, Éadig stepped up to Sefa, for that was her name, and asked her hand in the next dance – and he didn't let go of it for the remainder of the evening. The next day, he resigned from his service so as to not have to part from Sefa ever again. He then asked her for her hand in marriage, and they were wedded before the winter.

On the morning of their wedding, the King of Rochand himself came to visit him. Thorongil had told him of the great service Éadig had done the kingdom, and so the King rewarded him with a tremendous gift.'

'What about Breha? Did she not get anything for her service?' Sefra, Sefwyn's daughter, wanted to know.

'She didn…-'

A loud crash caused the Elleth to fall silent and together with all others in the cave, she listened with bated breath as shuffling and coarse voices filled the quiet of the cave.

Dago hon! Dago hon!~ Kill him! Kill him!  
Rochand ~ Rohan  
Gwathuirim ~ Dunlendings

* * *

 **Author's Note: Fun fact about the story that Bruihel told her family. I have actually worked out the entire timeline of her adventures with Éadig and matched it with Aragorn's time in Rohan and Gondor. When she and Éadig arrived in Rohan (2969 T.A.), Aragorn – under the name of Thorongil – had already been in Rohan for some years (since 2957 T.A.) and would remain there for some time under the service of King Thengel before moving on to Gondor where he would serve the steward Ecthelion, father of Denethor. The story which she tells in this chapter is also related to the remark she makes to Aragorn in Chapter 8, where she refers to the years they fought together.**

 **In addition, I do want to say I'm very very sorry about this chapter, but it had to happen. I'm curious to hear your thoughts however, so do leave a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Welcome back all! I want to start by apologising for the cliff hanger with which I ended the previous chapter. I usually do not do these kinds of things, but in this case it made sense based on the context to separate the previous chapter and the present one. Once again, sorry though! Next, I wish to thank _ColdOnePaul_ for their review of last week's chapter. Before continuing, I wish to say that I wrote the first part of this chapter while listening to Evenstar (from the Lord of the Rings OST), and I recommend you also listen to it while reading. Now, without further ado, on with the chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter eleven: The crossroads**

The first thing Ardhoniel noticed when she came to was the all-consuming quiet. Gone was the screaming, the howling, the clash of metal-against-metal. Next, she realised that the location she now found herself standing in was far from foreign, and yet there was a part of her that realised she had never been there before.

When she turned from the lifelike mural, she found herself taking in the grand expanse of the Gallery of Kings, complete with its golden foundation and banners. And yet, the golden floor was not massive, but appeared rather transparent, and as she took in its rich colour, Ardhoniel could swear she saw something move beneath its surface. The tall banners that hung down were not of a deep blue, but rather a greyish colour, swaying in a seemingly absent breeze. Where should have been a ceiling, the banners seemingly went on endlessly, the ceiling – if it was at all there – so far up that even her sharp Elven eyes could not perceive it.

If she needed any more confirmation that this was not the Erebor she knew, she found herself clad in a flowing dress of spun blue and silver, all grime and blood seemingly washed from her body. Her feet were bare, but the floor felt neither cold nor hard to their soles.

Carefully stepping out of the arch that she had been in, she wandered around the silent room peacefully as she admired the murals that adorned each of the small coves. Where in Erebor, she knew they depicted great events of Dwarven history, here it seemed they spoke of the larger history of Arda. Many of these tales she was familiar it, and had been recounted to her during her education. One of them, however, she could not place, and she stopped to examine it more closely.

The painting showed two figures against a backdrop of stone. From the darkened hue that was given to the scene and the torches that hung against one of the walls, she could only deduce that it had to be either night or somewhere in a place where no natural light penetrated. Her mind immediately flashed to the underground Kingdom of Erebor, and yet she immediately knew that link to be false. There was something distinctively smoother about the scene she witnessed, a point only further made as she studied the two figures in closer detail. They were on, what appeared to be, a carefully constructed pyre. One of them, with greying hair and a worn face, was standing with his arms stretched and head bowed back. The lack of beard and his seeming height told her that he was no Dwarf. Neither was the Man that lay at his feet, his eyes shut and a peaceful expression on his otherwise pale and battered face. Although she was certain that she had never met either Man, there was something distinctively familiar about them that she could not place in that moment. More curious was what significance the scene could hold – for it was clear that it did, placed as it was among the significant events of their World.

Shaking her head to dispel the sudden chill that had set in her heart, she moved on, her feet carrying her to a more familiar mural, which depicted a beautiful Elven maiden with dark hair holding the still body of a mortal Man.

A curious sensation suddenly crept up on her, and she realised she was not alone. Turning slowly, however, nothing could have prepared her for the vision that met her eyes.  
Whether he had been there all this time or had just appeared, she did not know, and it hardly seemed to matter. She knew that hair, that magnificent raven mane streaked with silver. She knew that profile, that straight nose and those full lips. She knew those blue eyes, and when they connected with hers it was as if all else ceased to exist. In that moment, there was only him, the Dwarf that had never been hers to hold on to, and yet who she had held onto so very tightly. The Dwarf who she had once said she could have loved given time – and who she had loved for all these years.

When she had started to move, she did not know, but suddenly she found herself crossing the great golden expanse that separated them, her eyes not once looking away from his, until she found herself right in front of the raised dais he was stood upon. And suddenly they were only inches away, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her face, and she felt her eyes tear up at the realization that it was truly him. He was truly here, with her.

'Thorin, I…-' She started, her voice thick with emotion, but he held up his hand.

'I know,' he replied to the unspoken admission, and his hand reached to gently hold hers. 'There are many things I regret doing during my life, but none so much as what I did not do.'

'There were more important things to consider.'

'Aye, there always were.'

A silence fell between them, and she allowed her breathing to calm as she focussed on the warm thumb that stroked the back of her cold hand. There was so much she wanted to tell him, to ask him, but she hesitated out of fear of breaking the moment. And so they simply stood, hands touching as their eyes tried to convey words that could never be spoken.

'I never stopped missing you,' she spoke at last, the admission so truthful that she felt new tears well up in her eyes. 'Not one day since you…-'

A sad smile pulled at his lips, and Thorin reached up to wipe at the wetness that was starting to spill over. When he spoke, his voice was low and warm, 'No more tears, _amrâlimê_. We are together now.'

His other hand encompassed her free one, and Ardhoniel felt her tears dissipate as she gazed into the eyes of the Dwarf she loved. In her heart, she was beginning to understand what his presence meant, and yet there was another part of her, the part that still clung to life on Arda, that was not ready to admit to it just yet. And so, when she spoke next, she gazed about her at the hall that was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. 'What is this place?'

'The Halls of Awaiting,' he confirmed her suspicions. 'Why it has appeared as it has, I'm not certain.'

'Does this mean…'

'Not yet. You are now at the crossroads of life and death, though I suspect your decision time is not endless. You fought bravely, Ardhoniel.'

She gazed into his eyes once more, allowing herself to drift off into those blue pools for another long moment. They could be together, without the Quest weighing down on him, without the looming prospect of becoming King, without the divide of their people. In death, they may finally have the life they could not have on Arda. And yet…

It was true that her heart had yearned for him since their parting. So often she had wished… wondered what might have been, had he lived. And yet, she found, that was the entire crux of the matter. He had not – but she had. And now, faced with the decision, she found quite to her own surprise that a part of her still clung to life. No matter how much she had tried to deny it these past years, she was still part of Arda, of life. And she could not abandon it now that they needed her most.

Realising what this meant, she forced her tear-filled eyes to meet Thorin's, taking a step back out of the circle of his warmth. There was much she wanted to tell him, and yet found that no words would be enough to express the feelings that now raced through her as a whirlwind.

But it seemed no words were needed, for he simply nodded, though he looked pained by the very action. He opened his mouth to say something, but whatever words left his lips were lost to Ardhoniel as the world started to fade around her.

She found herself reaching out for his warm hand, panicked by the idea that their time together was cut so short, but touched only thin air. 'Thorin, I lo…-'

* * *

When she woke, the sunlight filtering in through the high window fell directly on her cot, the heath a welcome sensation to her stiff and weary limbs. Gazing dazedly around the room, it was hard to believe it was the same room she had been breezing through, aiding the sick and wounded, not too long ago. Now she was one of the latter herself.

'It's good to see you awake, _mellon nin_.'

Shifting her eyes to the Elleth at her bedside, she found her relief at finding a familiar face quickly dissipating at noting the state that familiar face was in. Several bruises lined the line of her jaw, and a bandage was wrapped around Bruihel's upper arm. 'W-what happened?' Ardhoniel emitted with difficulty, her mouth drier than she had realised.

'We won. Although you must have reached that conclusion by now, I think.'

'But with you. I thought you were…-'

'In the caves, yes. Some of the Uruks made it in. We managed to ward them off long enough, but…' When her eyes reconnected with Ardhoniel's, the latter noticed they were glazed over with tears. 'Sefa is… She… I wasn't watching my back and … She sacrificed herself to save me.'

'I'm sorry.'

'She's with Éadig now.'

Ardhoniel watched as her friend fought to get her emotions under control, and she reached out a shaky hand to give Bruihel's a soft squeeze. Truth was that there was little comfort to be given in moments like this. No words that could take away the pain of losing someone – that could somehow magically make it better. There was only time, and even that sometimes was not enough. 'What about the others?'

'Sefwyn, Sefleth, and Wilfled are all right, minus some scrapes and bruises. The children have luckily gone unharmed.'

'And Éaden and Haling?'

'Alive, though I dare say Haling received a nasty wound to his leg. Best keep an eye out for an infection…' Bruihel closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before she directed a grim smile in her friend's direction. 'I thought we had agreed that next time we would meet under happier circumstances.'

Ardhoniel felt the corners of her mouth draw up despite herself. 'Next time we will. Won't you tell me what happened in the battle? I must confess I remember little after…' Her mind flashed back to the Gallery of Kings, to Thorin – and the reality of the situation only now set in that she had nearly died.

'I don't know the entire story,' Bruihel started apologetically, 'But when she asked me to stay with you, Lady Éowyn told me they found you in the Keep after the battle. That was yesterday morning. Do you remember how you got there?'

Flashes of a dark and rainy night played in front of her mind's eye. The wall being blown up, fighting back the tide of Uruks as they rushed into the fort, Haldir… She shook her head, just as more visions came to her, these scenes more vague and blurred than the previous. Large, dark shadows charging past her with raised weapons, crawling over the bodies of nameless and faceless Men and Elves. She wasn't sure whether they were actual memories of that night, or whether they were simply images made up by her tired and befuddled mind – and for the most part she didn't want to know. 'I don't know. I think I crawled away from the battle, but I don't remember making it to the Keep.'

'You did not,' another voice cut in, and Ardhoniel was only partially surprised to find the Lady of Rohan in the Healing chamber. 'Before they left, my Lord Legolas told me he found you and pulled you with him to the Keep. He bound your wound with a strip from your tunic before leaving with the Men for the charge. It is fortunate he did, for you would have surely bled out immediately otherwise.'

Bringing a hand to her stomach, Ardhoniel felt the wound that lay there as if in confirmation of the young Woman's tale. Indeed, she found her stomach covered by a thick bandage, and a painful throbbing bespoke what lay beneath. 'Then I owe Lord Legolas my thanks.'

'He rode out with the King's party this morning to confront Saruman before returning to Edoras. The remainder of us shall begin the return journey tomorrow morning. I'm afraid I shall have to take my leave of you now; much needs to be arranged before our departure and my Uncle has left me in charge of overseeing it. Take care, Lady Ardhoniel.'

'She knows,' Bruihel spoke at last, when the Woman had exited the chamber. 'Although I do not quite understand why you did not tell her in the first place.'

In her slow mind, it took a moment for the younger Elleth's words to register, but when they did they caused Ardhoniel to sigh. 'It was a different time. A different me. One I was not yet ready to face.'

'And you are now?'

Her mind flashed back to Thorin and for the first in many long years, the thought of him caused her no pain. She had chosen this. Had chosen life. And when she would return to him, she wanted him to be proud of the person she had become. 'I will be.'

Amrâlimê ~ My love (lit. love of mine)  
Mellon nin ~ My friend

* * *

 **Author's Note: This chapter is, quite literally, the crossroads of this story, as it marked the moment Ardhoniel had to make a decision. Given its significance, I am very curious to hear your opinion of it (of the first, but also the second part). So, make me a happy author and drop a review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Welcome back all and thank you for still continuing on this journey with me! So I noticed last week's chapter got quite a lot of reviews (more than usual, in any case) and I think that may partially be out of concern that I'm going to screw this up (pardon my French) in terms of it not following canon. More specifically, I think the scene where Ardhoniel met Thorin in the Halls of Awaiting gave rise to the concern that this may not be following Tolkien's ideas about the afterlife. Although I do not wish to get into this too much right now - and of course every fanfiction author always runs the risk of and sometimes even wants to write non-canon - I will have you know that I am aware of the writings on the afterlife and how this differs per race.  
**

 **With that said, I hope I have quelled any fears that this story will be completely ignorant of everything that wasn't in the LOTR or the Hobbit books/movies. While I certainly do not claim to be an expert scholar on everything Tolkien, I do try to read up as much on everything that I reference here as much as possible.**

 **I do want to thank _Tibblets, Guest,_ and _ColdOnePaul_ (nah I think you're right that Ardhoniel couldn't, as you very nicely put it (;, "pull a Glorfindel . Now I really want to use that somewhere, haha, although I fear it doesn't really fit with the tone of my story).**

 **Now, about this chapter. It is a rather tame one, mostly just a moment of calm before we jump into the next burst of action (as I believe this part was also very much in the movie). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

 **Chapter twelve: Healing**

The return journey from Helm's Deep was possibly even slower than the journey there. For once, however, Ardhoniel hardly minded, for every bump the cart she was seated on hit jostled her still throbbing wound. The company wasn't too bad either – certainly much more entertaining than her company on the first journey – and she spent most of the ride entertaining Sefleth and Éaden's children with stories from her youth. It felt good to talk about her life so openly, to not shun away from who she had once been. For their part, the children also cared little, as long as the story was sure to contain enough shenanigans. Having been raised with two trouble makers for brothers, this was hardly a difficult request.

When she was not talking to the children, the Elleth spent her time looking out over the war-torn lands of Rohan. At one time, the outstretched fields may have been a beauty to behold, but now it was impossible to escape the dire reality the kingdom was in. Perhaps with the Men having gone to confront Saruman, the land could heal and grow to be beautiful and prosperous once more.

From the surrounding lands, Ardhoniel's gaze shifted to a familiar figure with golden hair and fair skin at the front of the caravan. She had once likened the young Rohirric Woman to her kin on the basis of those external features; now, she resembled them in her detached and cool attitude as well. A frown set on the Elleth's brow, and she called out to Bruihel, who was riding her horse not too far in front of the cart. 'Have I offended the Lady Éowyn?'

The younger Elleth threw her a funny expression from over her shoulder, 'Of course she is offended. You lied about who you were the entire time.'

'I didn't lie.'

'Very well; you evaded important details, which is all the same if you were to ask me. The point is that you weren't honest about who you were even when there was no rational ground for doing so.'

'There was ground!'

'Do you ever listen?' Bruihel asked, casting a look of annoyance in her direction. 'I said a _rational_ ground. Which there was not. No, don't argue. I know that you hurt, that you still hurt, but pretending that it didn't happen, that it wasn't you, is not going to make it any better. It is only going to keep others from getting close to you.'

'I know.'

'Then do you understand why the Lady would be upset?'

Ardhoniel sighed, realising that, of course, her friend was right. She had only been trying to protect herself, but had ended up hurting another by her deceit. She had come to think of Éowyn as a friend of sorts, and knowing that she had caused her harm – albeit unwillingly – made her head hang in shame. 'What can I do to make things right?'

'I'm afraid I cannot tell you that, _mellon nin_. But I do know this: by keeping the truth from her, you did not only upset her, you disrespected her. Because you did not trust her with the truth. If you wish to make amends, I suggest you repair that.' With that said, Bruihel returned to the head of their small caravan, leaving her friend to her thoughts – and they were plenty, indeed.

* * *

They arrived in Edoras by noon on the third day of travel. The town was much the same as when they left it, though the people, tired though they were, were considerably more optimistic than on their departure. They had survived – despite the high price they had paid for it.

When the people of Edoras returned to their homes, the fugitives from surrounding times were left to stand in the town square, all that they owned on their back or in one of the small carts.

'Tonight we shall convene in Meduseld to drink on those who have fallen,' Éowyn announced, 'I invite you all to stay there tonight. Those of you who wish to return to their homes may do so in the morrow; for the others we shall find proper housing.'

When the Lady started up the long stairs that led to the King's hall, and the crowd started to scatter, Arhoniel eased herself off of the cart with a pained expression and a hand pressed firmly to her stomach. Sitting for so long had put a considerable strain on the wound, and her fingers gingerly touched the bandage that covered it before stepping up to Bruihel. 'Will I see you tonight in the Golden hall?'

'Yes, we shall leave for Walstow tomorrow. Right now I think we best get Haling to a Healer.'

'I shall take him,' she interjected, careful to repress the grimace that threatened to pull at her lips as she took a step forward. 'I am going to see if I can help out anyway. I'm sure there are many in need of aid.'

'Including you,' Bruihel said with a frown, then she sighed. 'But seeing that you've got your mind set, I might as well save myself the trouble of trying to make you see reason. I managed one time already today – I shall have to contend myself with that victory. So very well, take him.'

A tiny smile broke out on Ardhoniel's face despite her aching injuries, for in that moment of bickering, all seemed as it used to be. In a simpler time, when their friendship was not yet tainted by the shared loss they had seen.

After their parting, Ardhoniel went to collect Haling from the cart she had been previously seated on and, with the help of Éaden, managed to haul him to Houses of Healing. Despite the serious injury he had sustained to his leg and the loss of his mother-in-law, the Man was in relatively high spirits, and he chatted amiably to her as they found their way into the dark antechamber of Edoras' Houses of Healing. There were no windows in the room and, as a result, no sunlight. Instead, the only source of light – and heat – came from a large fire that burned in the middle of the room, around which were situated several comfortable chairs. This is where they met with Ides, the Healer's assistant, who helped Éaden in guiding Haling through one of the many doors that lined the walls of the chamber. Éaden then took his leave of them, promising to collect the other Man for the feast tonight.

Ides had just finished undressing and cleaning the wound when Aldwyn, the Head Healer, swept in, her hands all busy crushing up herbs as she cast her gaze around the room in that practiced manner of someone who is used to determining the gravity of a situation at a single glance – and left it to rest on the Elleth.

'What are you doing here?'

'I came to see if you needed any help w…-'

'You should not be on your feet,' she snapped, putting down her bowl long enough to usher the Elleth in an empty chair. 'The Valar know I grew too many grey hairs worrying over that wound of yours. Sit, child, sit!'

'But I'm fine,' she started, ignoring the Woman's erroneous use of the address as she worried her lip, amending her earlier statement, 'I want to help!'

'You may help by sitting down and being quiet,' she said brusquely, and the very act reminded her of Saeleth, the Head of the Healing Houses in Caras Galadhon. The Elleth had always been brusque in manner and few of words, but had been just and kind of heart. That the Rohirric Woman was of similar make was proven by her next words, spoken through pursed lips. 'If you behave I will even allow you to make some more salve.'

Thrown off by being treated as an Elfling again, all Ardhoniel could do was nod before the older Woman brushed out of the room again, leaving her alone again with Ides and Haling – the latter of which was smirking at her in a way that made her, childishly, stick her tongue out at him.

* * *

In the end, the old Healer had made good on her promise and had had Ides bring Ardhoniel various herbs to crush up and mix after finishing her work on Haling. The assistant had cleared out soon after, and Ardhoniel had been left to casually chat with the Man, who was assigned bed rest at least until his brother-in-law would come to collect him again, as her practiced hands worked on the salves. As he was in the middle of explaining to her how best to grow one's tomatoes, she realised it had been a long time since she had experienced such normalcy. And yet it was as abnormal as it could get, for here she was in a settlement of Men, listening to one recounting his profession to her. Even during her travels with the Dwarves of Erebor, there had been little time to speak of such mundane things. And yet, mundane though it was, she found she greatly enjoyed learning about the smaller details of the alien culture.

At last, it was Aldwyn who came to break up their discussion on the adequacy of salad as a meal, when the sun had already started to set. Announcing Éaden had arrived, Ardhoniel was about to leave with the two Men when the Healer took hold of her arm and guided her into a comfortable chair that sat near the fire that burned in the antechamber. Disappearing for a moment, she returned with a small pot of salve and a fresh roll of bandages. 'Remove your tunic,' she said at last impatiently, when the Elleth showed no sign of cooperating. 'Let's see how your wound is holding together before you run out of here again.'

Taking off her tunic, Ardhoniel lifted the bottom of her undershirt to reveal the bandages that lay beneath. Both actions were of course hardly necessary, for the blade that had slashed her wound had also cut through the fabric of both garments. Until now, the Elleth had simply chosen to ignore it as she had nothing to replace them with, but was now left to finger the large gash in her tunic as the Woman started undressing her wound.

Aldwyn had apparently noticed it too, for although her eyes seemingly never left the wound on her stomach, she said, 'You are lucky the weather has been kind on us, for I doubt that shirt would have done much to keep you warm.'

'Yes, I should try to find a new one before leaving here.' The words had been spoken quite mindlessly, and it was only afterwards that their meaning registered. Soon she would be leaving, but to what? Her old life in Caras Galadhon's Healing Houses now seemed dull and confining, yet she had no other prospects. She had been told Lothlórien was experiencing increasing attacks by Orcs, so perhaps she could offer her help to the Galadhrim?

'Well it is all healing nicely, although I am afraid it will leave some scarring. Though it seems you are no stranger to that…' She mused, her fingers lightly touching the two small round scars on her side that were remnants of her battle with the spiders of Mirkwood. 'I take it you also wish to go to the celebration in Meduseld?'

'Yes, w…-'

'Well you certainly cannot go in that. It would be most improper.'

'It's all I have – and I doubt I shall be able to procure anything else before then.'

The old Woman sighed, pushing a hand through her grey hair, 'Wait here.'

Staring into the fire at her feet, Ardhoniel was unsure for how long the Healer had gone before she returned, holding out a pile of green fabric towards her.

'With your height I doubted you'd fit any of the Women's clothes,' Aldwyn remarked, as the Elleth examined what now appeared to be a simple Man's tunic. 'It may be a little wide on the shoulders, but it's better than what you've got, to be frank.'

'Thank you,' Ardhoniel started, taken aback by the unexpected kindness. 'But..-'

'Then stop your gabbling and put it on, child! The celebration will not wait for you, you know?'

Biting her lip in an effort to hide the smile that was threatening to spread – one she was sure Aldwyn would scold her for – Ardhoniel pushed the tunic over her head. Thanking the Woman once again for her kindness, she quickly disappeared through the front door before another scolding remark could make it her way.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to chapter 13! It's a rather long chapter (over 4,000 words), but cutting it in two didn't really make sense content-wise. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it and I look forward to hearing your opinions on it!**

* * *

 **Chapter thirteen: The Golden Hall**

By the time she arrived in the King's Hall, many of the people from Edoras had already gathered to hear the King's mournful words. Ardhoniel found herself glad about her height for what might have been the first time, for it allowed her to easily locate Bruihel even in the mass of people that filled the Hall from one wall to the other.

As she slipped through the throng as discretely as possible, she picked up parts of the King's speech, which appeared to mostly be intended to remember the fallen – and in that sense did not seem to differ much from the customs of her own people. By the time she reached her friend, the King had raised his cup in honour of the deceased, and Ardhoniel found herself doing the same with a cup that was pressed in her hand by Bruihel.

Soon after, the silence of the moment ended and the grieving made room for celebration. As the people of Edoras started their merrymaking, Ardhoniel took notice of the two Men that flanked her friend – one of them who was currently leaning against a barrel of mead. 'I'm surprised to see you on your feet,' Ardhoniel remarked with a smile.

'Barely, he grinned, seemingly unbothered by the battle wound he had received. He then sobered, and he leaned forward so that she may hear his soft-spoken words over the chaos around them. 'Although I believe I have you to thank for that.'

'Hardly. Although I am glad to see you well,' she said, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. Luckily, she was spared any further unease as Bruihel gave her a hard, but discrete elbow in her side and she turned to find the King, along with his niece and nephew, had stopped next to them.

Turning, Ardhoniel found she could not quite face Éowyn's cold expression, nor did her pride allow her to gaze upon her brother, and so she turned to the King. He was an elder Man, clearly past the prime of his time, but with a strength that she also recognised in his niece – and, although she loathed to admit it – his nephew.

'You were in the final charge, were you not?' He requested, sharp eyes resting on Éaden, who stood a little straighter in response.

'Yes, my Lord.'

Théoden nodded, 'I thought I remembered your face. That sword you carried, where did you get that?'

'It was my father's.'

'Then you are the son of Éadig, son of Éador?'

The young Man looked thrown off by this – and Ardhoniel, who indeed understood very little of what was going on, understood this sentiment fully. 'I am, my Lord. But…'

The King's gaze then shifted from Éaden to the Elleth that stood next to the young Man, an instinctive stance of protection that Ardhoniel supposed Bruihel was not even conscious of any more. Then, to make matters all the more confusing, the King bowed his head to the Elleth. 'I am glad to see you well, Lady Bruihel. It has been many years. From his absence and the fact that his son now bears his sword, I take it that Éadig is no longer among us?'

'Indeed,' she nodded, 'Éadig died mere months ago. His wife, Sefa, unfortunately did not survive the battle of Helm's Deep.'

'My condolences, for the both of them,' Théoden King said, the sincerity in his voice once more alluding to some sort of familiarity between the King and the Elleth.

'But… Pardon my asking, my Lord, but how did you know who I am and that this was my father's sword?'

Théoden turned back to the younger Man, the frown on his face making way for a mischievous smile, 'Because it was given to him by my father, as a reward for his servitude.'

As the King started to explain the significance of the sword, Ardhoniel found her gaze quite unwillingly shifting to Éowyn, who so far had stood by quietly. Dressed in a fine dress, Ardhoniel was surprised to find her hair down instead of in an elaborate updo as she would have expected for such a celebration. Even so, and perhaps more so with her fair hair cascading down her back, the Woman held an undeniable beauty in the way that there was a certain beauty in the frostiness of winter. And now she found that frostiness to be directed at her.

Soon, the King – and indirectly, his party – took their leave and Ardhoniel was left staring at the back of the Woman she had considered her friend. A moment passed and then, after another elbow in the side from Bruihel, she found herself moving after her. When she reached them, she gave a somewhat awkward and strained bow to the King and his nephew, before she turned to the sole female in the party.

'Lady Éowyn, might I have a moment?'

At her uncle's nod, Éowyn acquiesced, and the two of them stepped out of the way of the many other people that were making their way around the Hall. 'Green looks good on you,' Éowyn remarked detachedly when they faced each other once more, referring to the Rohirric tunic that the Elleth was wearing.

'I prefer blue,' she replied bluntly, then, before she could lose her nerve, 'Éowyn, I wish to apologize for not being forthcoming about my past. I…-'

'You need not state your reasons, Lady Ardhoniel. Whatever they are, they are your own.'

'I know, but I wish to. I was grieving, Éowyn, I still am grieving, but I wasn't ready to face it. And while that may not be an excuse, it is the truth.' Taking a deep breath, the Elleth continued, 'As I'm sure you know by now, I am the Elven guide from the story, the one that led the Company of Thorin Oakenshield from Imladris. Except that is where the similarities end, for my motivations for helping them were far more selfish than Master Gimli made it appear.

'While the details may be somewhat different than you have been told, some of it was true. I did love him – and I still do – and I like to believe that he may have loved me. I tried to save him, but I failed. And after his death, his nephews gave me a bead that had belonged to him.' Here she moved her hand up, to brush away the upper layer of her hair and expose the delicate silver bead that lay beneath. 'Not a day goes by when I do not think of him, do not lament the years that we could have spent together if fate had been different that day.'

'Lady Ardhoniel, I…-'

'A moment, if you would, to say one more thing.' When the young Woman nodded, Ardhoniel resumed. 'I want you to know that I'm not telling you this to regain your favour. I'm telling you because I know you will not regard me differently, whether I'm a simple Healer from Lothlórien or not. I'm telling you because I want you to know that you have my trust.'

A short silence followed, the Woman's expression as unreadable as ever, before she said at last, 'And you have mine, Lady Ardhoniel. Whether for selfish reasons or not, you risked your life for those who are not your kin not once, but twice now. That speaks more of your character than any story ever could.' The young Woman then curtseyed, a rather apologetic look on her features – the first open expression she had displayed to her ever since Helm's Deep. 'If you will excuse me, I will have to see to my brother now. While mature in age, his drinking habits seem to lag somewhat behind,' she added this last bit dryly. Then, before she could turn away completely, she asked, 'Where are you staying tonight, Lady Ardhoniel?'

'Oh, I don't…-'

'I shall have a room prepared for you.'

Watching the Woman go, it was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders – and she realised the irony of the situation. Rather than complicating her life, speaking the truth about her past had actually done the complete opposite in this matter. While she dared not hope that her resolve to live would always be this easy, it was a positive start.

Left on her own, Ardhoniel decided to also get something to drink. Despite not liking the taste of the mead Men seemed so fond of, the Elleth found she had not drank anything since Ides gave her a cup of water in the Healing Hall that afternoon, and she was absolutely parched. When she arrived at one of the tables that held several barrels of mead, as well as many full, half-full, and empty cups, she was surprised a mug was immediately filled and passed in her direction. Looking up to thank whoever had supplied her, Ardhoniel was surprised she did not have to look up all that far – and was greeted by the Dwarf Gimli, who for once was not scowling at her. In fact, if she did not know any better, she dare say he offered her a small nod in return as she thanked him.

Bewildered by the unexpected show of kindness from the Dwarf's side, Ardhoniel stared after him with a look of incredulity. When Gimli had long since disappeared in the mass of people and her mental capacities finally had returned to her, Ardhoniel shook her head and took a sip from her cup, suppressing the reflex to grimace at the taste.

Retreating from the more crowded main area of the room to one of the side arcs, the Elleth contemplated the meaning of his kindness – but came up blank.

Unable to explain the Dwarf's curious behaviour, Ardhoniel instead took to studying the room. The solemn mood that that had hung there at the time of her arrival had lifted, and instead had made room for celebration and merrymaking – both of which seemed to be found, for many a Man, at the bottom of their mugs. Indeed, from her spot she noticed even Legolas standing near a refreshment table with Gimli, each holding a drink in hand. If only his father could see him now, she thought amusedly to herself.

Decidedly less amusing though no less intriguing a sight was when she spotted Aragorn, speaking to no other than Mithrandir. She had not seen the latter ever since before they had left for Helm's Deep, but if what Bruihel had told her during the return journey was true, the Istar had played a large part in Rohan's victory. Despite their many disagreements, she was happy to see him, as well as Aragorn, safe.

When she allowed her gaze to wander further, her eyes next found the spot where she had last seen Bruihel and Éaden and Haling, but found it empty. A quick sweep of the room did not help to locate them either, and Ardhoniel figured they must have already left. As they were leaving in the morning for their hometown, it made sense they would wish to get a good's night sleep. On that note, the Elleth thought as she stifled a yawn of her own, she herself could also do with one. Indeed, it had been many days since she had slept in a proper bed, and her body yearned for a soft mattress and a fluffy pillow. She might as well make use of it today, for she planned to start her journey to Lothlórien tomorrow.

Pushing herself off of the pillar she had been leaning against, she was about to make a beeline for the double doors at the end of the hall when her eyes caught a sight she had not expected to see in a place such as this – and she found the corners of her mouth lifting quite unwillingly. They were tiny, even from their point of elevation on the table top they were dancing on only just being able to see over the heads of the onlookers. Each had a mop of curly golden hair, and their faces were so merry that any who looked upon them could not help but mirror the expression. Ardhoniel could only deduce that they must be the lost companions of Boromir – or they must simply be another pair of Hobbits to visit Rohan, an option that would have seemed impossible a month ago but had started to seem more and more plausible as time passed. While having no personal connection to the two Hobbits, she was glad to find they, too, had safely returned to them.

During the return journey, she had wanted to ask Bruihel how the others had faired, but had thought it insensitive to ask when the Elleth was still coping with her own loss. Even so, she had wondered about the company of Aragorn often since the battle, and was glad to find all of them were still in one piece. Well, all but one of them, for there was one person she had yet to find.

As she took to searching the room for a certain Gondorian, a familiar voice called to her.

'Are you looking for someone, Lady Ardhoniel?'

'I was actually. For you,' She said with an upturn of her lips as she turned to face Boromir. 'I was just confirming you had all gotten out of the battle at Helm's Deep unscathed.'

'I am happy to be of service in that case,' the Gondorian spoke as he bowed his head. Then, he offered her a cup of mead.

'I'm afraid Master Gimli beat you to it,' she replied, holding her own cup up for him to see.

'Then it will simply save me one journey to the refreshments table.'

A silence fell over the pair and as the Gondorian took to surveying the room, Ardhoniel used this moment to discretely study the Man at her side. His face was free of wounds and bruises, and his stance seemed untroubled by pain – although she knew better than to trust appearances; the Man had, after all, a knack for pretending to be alright. More so than seeming unharmed, there was a certain ease in his expression, a peace, that she had not seen there before. And as she studied the lines of his face, another face suddenly rose before her mind's eye – and she was reminded of the mural that she had seen in the Halls of Awaiting.

A sharp intake of breathe caused her to cough loudly, and she held her stomach as the wound throbbed painfully at the movement.

'I must say I am surprised to see you here, Lady Ardhoniel. From what I've heard you only very barely survived.'

'I was lucky,' she agreed, taking a drink from her cup to wash away the shock she had just received. Then, when she felt sufficiently recovered, she asked, 'What about you? I certainly hope I shall not have to sew you up _again_.'

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips for a moment, before disappearing as he responded in the negative.

Another silence fell over them, and when Ardhoniel chanced another glance at the Gondorian from the corner of her eye, she found he was looking rather… uneasy? She frowned, unsure what to make of his uncharacteristic behaviour. When Boromir made no sign of planning to continue the conversation, the Elleth asked, attempting to sound casual. 'What is troubling you, Lord Boromir?'

His eyes only briefly met hers, wide at being called out quite so bluntly, before he returned his gaze to the room. A long moment passed in which he said nothing, then he turned to her, a frown marring his face. 'It is not so much a trouble, as a confusion, my lady.'

'Then will you not share it?'

The Gondorian sighed, 'If you wish. It concerns information that was brought to my attention during the battle of Helm's Deep.' At her questioning look, he took a long drink from the mead – the second cup already, she noticed – before continuing. 'Minutes before the final stance, Legolas rushed into the Keep, carrying an unconscious form in his arms. I drew closer as he deposited the figure on the floor and bound a strip of fabric around a large wound around its midsection. However,' he paused, and when his grey eyes met hers, Ardhoniel knew already what he was about to say – and why he had acted so strangely, 'My attention was caught by a glint of metal in her hair. A silver bead, crafted in the style of Dwarves.'

'Well, that certainly explains Master Gimli's behaviour…'

Boromir nodded – and apparently no more needed to be said, for silence befell them once more. For her part, Ardhoniel was not sure where the revelation of her past left them. From what she could tell, he appeared neither angry or upset – although she had to admit she experienced some difficulty with gauging the stoic Gondorian's mood. Of course, he not been forthcoming about his identity either and had, indeed, even been downright suspicious of her. While her reasons for withholding information may have differed from his, in behaviour they were at least on equal footing. In this case, however, she was not sure she wanted to be, if it meant that neither had trusted the other.

Touching a hand to her head which had started to ache from all the complicated matters she had to consider that night, Ardhoniel emptied her cup – suppressing another grimace – before she turned to Boromir. 'Well, I shall be going to bed now, for I wish to leave early in the morrow. I will find your company to say my goodbyes in the morning.'

'Where shall you go?'

'Back to Lothlórien,' she replied, then bowed. 'Goodnight, Lord Boromir.'

'Good night, my lady.'

As she made her way to the door, the Elleth noticed the crowd had already seemingly thinned. No longer was the hall packed, and those who lingered were mostly gathered, in varying states of inebriation, around the refreshment tables. Yes, now would be a good time to leave indeed, before the alcohol turned tongues loose and hands wandering…  
On the way to the door, however, her eye fell on a familiar figure, the whites of his garbs in stark contrast to the browns and greens that decorated the King's hall and most of its inhabitants. A small smile found its way to her lips, and she found, quite uncharacteristically, that she was glad to see him.

'Mithrandir!'

'Ah, Lady Ardhoniel, what a joy to see you again,' there was a twinkle in his eye as he said this, and she – much as usual – could not determine whether he spoke earnest or not. 'I have heard many a tall tale recounted of you this evening.'

'Indeed?' She remarked somewhat grumpily, the joy at seeing her old friend immediately dampened at this news. While she no longer minded her past had passed into public knowledge, she'd rather it be left where it belonged; namely, the past. Deciding it was not to be helped, she forced a tired smile for the old Istar. 'Then I suppose the experience is mutual. If even half of what I have overheard tonight is true, I and the people of Rohan owe you our lives.'

'I merely found the right person at the right moment,' he responded vaguely, causing her smile to widen.

'I might have been surprised if you had been anyone else, my friend. But all mystery aside, I cannot deny that I am happy to see you.'

'And only barely, I'm told. I had not expected you to fight…'

'Neither did I, but…' She swallowed, meeting the Istar's penetrating gaze for the first time. Many years ago, she may have feared that he would look through her façade and see her for what she truly was. Even several days ago, she was afraid that he would expose her vulnerabilities for the world to see – and allowing her to deny them no longer. Now, she found she was no longer hesitant, and even sought out the wisdom that he may offer. 'When I nearly died, I saw Thorin.'

'Oh?'

His face was unreadable, but she dare say he sounded intrigued at the information that she'd offered. 'I woke in what appeared to me as the Gallery of Kings in Erebor, and yet I'm certain that it was not.' Her mind flashed back to the scene that had appeared before her, so lifelike and yet so utterly unreal that it could not have been Erebor – or any other place in this world. 'I don't think it was a dream either. Is that possible? Could I somehow have found Thorin in the afterlife?'

'It depends on who you ask,' the Istar replied, rather vaguely as was his custom. Then, at seeing her confused expression, he elaborated, 'Your people and Dwarves have often had very differing notions of what happens to the Dwarrow after death. However, among Dwarves it is generally believed that upon death, their souls are gathered in separate halls in the Halls of Mandos by Mahal the Maker – or Aulë, as you would call him.'

'So then it is possible that I saw Thorin?'

The Istar was silent for a moment, clearly still mulling the idea over until he had at last relented, 'Perhaps. But if that is the case, then the more pressing matter is not how, but why.'

Several long seconds passed before Ardhoniel recognised the question in his words, and she frowned. 'I… I am not sure what it means, I admit. But when I was there, I think I was given a choice.'

'And what was your decision, pray tell?'

One of the corners of her mouth pulled up as she realised that the Istar did not sound surprised – and even sounded a little smug as he posed her the innocent question. 'I know what you wish me to say and so I shall amuse you: you were right. I tried hiding from the world, but now I realise that I cannot do so any longer. I shall leave for Lothlórien in the morning. I have been told attacks by Orcs are becoming increasingly frequent and serious, and I believe they shall need any help they can get. Especially now that Haldir is…'

'Is what?'

'I apologise, I had forgotten you were not present during the initial battle. Soon after the explosion of the wall, and when I myself was wounded, Haldir fell.'

'Indeed? Did you witness it?'

'I… well, no, I passed out myself before the fatal blow fell. But I saw his station being overrun, an Uruk coming up at his back. He could never…-'

'But he did.' Then, with a meaningful turn to the side, he spoke, 'I believe your friend, Lord Boromir, may have had something to do with that.'

'Boromir?'

Mithrandir hummed, hiding the satisfied expression that was threatening to show on his face by turning his gaze away. Allowing this new information about the Gondorian Man to sink in, Ardhoniel was reminded of another, possibly related, urgent matter.

'Mithrandir? Does Boromir have any siblings?'

'One. A younger brother, named Faramir I believe. Why do you ask, my dear?'

'There was something else, too…' She started, unsure of how to broach this topic. 'When I was… out, in the Gallery of Kings, there were murals that depicted the history of the World.'

The Istar's bushy eyebrows rose in intrigue. 'Manifestations of Vairë's tapestries?'

'I considered this, too, yes,' she nodded, 'There were many events that I was familiar with, but one so I was not – and I believe that may be because it has yet to pass.' Closing her eyes for a moment, Ardhoniel gathered her thoughts, pulling the memory of the mural back to the front of her mind, before she continued. 'It showed two Men standing on what appeared to me a pyre – though it was unlit at the time. One was an older Man, the other who was younger, lying at his feet and appearing gravely wounded. Both bore a close resemblance to Boromir.

'If indeed a manifestation of the weavings of Vairë, this means both Men may die before long. But it is not too late, I think. If we tell Boromir, he…-'

'No!' Mithrandir interrupted frantically, 'We cannot interfere, no matter what it is you have seen.'

'But…-'

'Interfering may alter the future forevermore and all that could have been may be lost. You cannot tell Boromir! You must bury what you have seen in the dark recesses of your mind, never to be acted upon or heard about by another.' He stepped closer to her, urging her further as he said, 'Promise me you shall keep it to yourself, Lady Ardhoniel.'

'But I…-'

'Promise me!'

A moment passed before she relented, breaking her gaze from the Istar's powerful one. 'Very well. I promise I shall not tell Boromir.' Suddenly overcome by tiredness, she touched her head. 'Now if you don't mind, I shall retire for the evening.'

Seemingly satisfied that she would not go off sprouting her knowledge of the future, Mithrandir nodded, all traces of his previous power display gone. 'Of course. I am told Lady Éowyn prepared a room for you – the same one that you used before, I believe.'

Wishing the Istar a good night, she exited from the room, trying to shake off the feeling of impending doom that had grasped her – and refused to let go no matter how hard she tried.

* * *

 **Note.** According to lore, the Vala Vairë, the wife of Námo, lived with her husband in the Halls of Mandos. She was entitled the Weaver, for she wove the story of the World in her tapestries which hung in the halls of Mandos. The murals in this story are a play on them, given that I thought they would look more at place in the Gallery of Kings in Erebor than tapestries.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Hi all! I hope you all had a nice weekend and first day of the week. I just realised that the Word file in which I'm writing Bâhukhazâd II is already 42,000+ words long (I have it written up until chapter 16). It's really crazy how fast these things go. In any case, I'm really enjoying writing this and I hope you guys are also still. If so, don't forget to drop me a review! Now, enjoy the chapter! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter fourteen: The road ahead**

That night she was back in Erebor, but this time she was certain it was only a dream. No longer was the gold beneath her feet of a seemingly transparent quality, and the banners that hung from the roof were blue and motionless. She was dressed not in the rich robe she had worn last time, but had rather appeared in her day clothes, a soft throbbing at her side not allowing her to escape from her physical injuries even in dreams. And yet, not all was bad, for dream though it was, Thorin was still waiting for her at the other end of the hall – though his form was not as lifelike as she remembered.

Quite without realising it, she had started to make her way across the room to the deceased Dwarf, for although her head had decided to remain in Arda, her heart still longed for him. Even if only in dreams, she relished being in his company once more – and already dreaded the moment reality would part them. She wished to run to him, if it meant they would be together only a second longer, and yet her feet would not carry her any faster than they did. She wished to call, and yet found her voice irresponsive to her orders.

At last she arrived near the foot of the raised dais, and her feet came to a standstill as she gazed up at the back of the regal Dwarf. About to make another attempt at speaking, he finally turned, and she found her words die on her lips. For a moment they simply regarded one another, she attempting to commit every blurred detail to her memory.

'Thorin, I…' She started, unsure what it was she wished to say. That she was sorry? That she loved him? Before she could straighten out her thoughts, a scorching sensation made itself known, and she looked down to find the floor beneath her boots was becoming increasingly hot to her feet. She wished to take a step forward to the raised dais, but her feet seemed rooted to the spot. The heat, which until now had been an unpleasant, but bearable fact, was now burning the soles of her feet as it slowly turned the golden floor into a fiery lake. Ardhoniel rose her gaze back to Thorin's, eyes begging him to do something, but he simply remained standing, uncaring even as the floor beneath her started to give way and the Elleth started sinking. As the molten gold swallowed her, Ardhoniel could not tear her eyes away from the Dwarf that looked on as she was engulfed by the gold that now shone and burned as fire.

She awoke with a start, body feeling as if it was still on fire and golden hair stuck to her damp forehead. As her eyes took in the room she had been assigned the previous night in the red light of dawn, her heart finally started to calm at the realisation that it had been nothing but a dream. And still, even as her heartbeat returned to normal and her body no longer felt as if it was still burning, she could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Realising there was no use to remaining in bed despite the early hour, she pushed away the covers and started collecting her things. When the task was done, and she found herself unusually eager to escape the confining space of her bedroom, she set out for the King's hall. The corridors she traversed were empty, and the rooms she passed quiet, and as such she was surprised to find that on nearing the hall she heard multiple excited voices coming from within. Familiar voices. Unconsciously, she came to a stop in front of the closed door as her sensitive ears caught wisps of conversation.

'… throne of Men,' she heard Mithrandir announce. 'When the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war.'

A long silence followed, and Ardhoniel was already raising her hand to push open the heavy doors when another voice, similarly weary, replied. 'Tell me, Gandalf, why should we come to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?'

While the subject was now sufficiently clear to the Elleth, it was less clear what could have possibly brought about this talk of a new war only so shortly after their victory at Helm's Deep – especially when all had seemed well the previous evening.

'They must be warned.' That was Aragorn, if she was not mistaken.

'They will be, but not by you,' Mithrandir replied, vague as per usual. However, this time she wished he would have refrained from an explanation – for it made the situation seem all the more dire. 'You must go to Minas Tirith via the river. Look for the black ships.

Understand this; things have now been set into motion that cannot be undone. I will depart this very morning, and I will not be going alone…'

'I shall accompany you as well. If there is anyone my father will listen to, it is me.'

'Very good, Lord Boromir. Ah Lady Ardhoniel, just in time,' the Istar called out to her, and she felt herself freeze at being caught eavesdropping, even through a closed door. Attempting to wipe the sheepish expression from her face, she pushed open the double doors, pretending she had not been standing on the other side for the better half of their conversation. 'The Lady Ardhoniel will also be accompanying us.'

Once again being stopped in her tracks, Ardhoniel was too thrown off to even voice her surprise – and disagreement. Instead, she settled for staring daggers at the Istar who now conveniently chose not to face her as he discussed the finer details of it with Aragorn and Théoden King. When this tactic proved to do her little good, she finally sat down at one of the tables and bit down on a piece of bread with more force than was strictly necessary. Next to her, she noted, was seated one of the Hobbits that she'd seen dancing the previous night, though he looked decidedly less jolly than on that night and even a little ill. Given the tensed atmosphere that hung in the room as well as her own violent emotions, she didn't ask – and therefore would only learn the reason for his demeanour later.

* * *

When Mithrandir found her at last, she had just been returning to her room, still undecided what to do with the new information she had received.

'We leave within the hour; you may wish to say your farewells.'

Swirling around, the defiance in her flared, and she pushed out her chin as she said, 'Why should I go? What business have I in Minas Tirith?'

'I have need of you there,' he replied, his answer as vague as she was used of him. Then, his sharp eyes captured hers and she found she could not look away.

'What changed between now and yesterday, when you agreed to my decision to return to Lothlórien?'

'Everything! The enemy is on the move and if what Pippin saw in the palantír is true, he will strike at the very heart of Gondor soon.'

'A palantír?' She repeated, blanching at the mention of the long-lost seeing stones. Once upon a time they had been crafted by the greatest craftsman of her kin, Fëanor, and later given as a gift to the Men of Númenor. But that was a long time ago, and through time, war, and ill luck, several of the stones had gone missing. Somehow, that had made the idea of connecting one's mind to them never sit well with her.

'The palantír of Orthanc,' he confirmed – and his next words made her realize that her reservations regarding the stones might have proven right in this case. 'By sheer luck, Pippin caught a glimpse of the enemy's plan to move against Minas Tirith. It may not be too late to warn them, if they are to stand a chance against the forces of Sauron.

'It is not mere chance that has brought you back, Ardhoniel. You have a part to play in the larger dealings of the world before this is all over.' A silence followed, and he knew as well as she did that her decision had already been made. 'Have I ever asked you to do something when it was not absolutely pivotal?'

Her mind flashed back to the borders of Mirkwood, where she had been pushed into a position where she was supposed to see not only herself but a company of Dwarves and a Hobbit safely through an enchanted forest across a road that she had never travelled before – but she found that it hardly mattered anymore. They could argue this decision for another hour and in the end, she would still be going with the Istar to Minas Tirith. She sighed, 'Very well. I should go and seek out Bruihel and the Lady Éowyn to say my goodbyes, then.'

With those words, and her own mixed feelings, she left the Istar. It did not turn out to be very hard to locate the King's niece who she found in her personal chambers, standing near the window overlooking the burial mounds outside the city walls with a grim expression. Alerted by the creaking of the door, Éowyn turned, the frown on her brow smoothening, though not disappearing entirely.

'You are leaving.'

'Yes,' she replied, taking a step further into the Woman's chambers and allowing the door to fall closed behind her. Remembering Éowyn had also been present for the discussion that morning, she added, 'Though not for the destination I had planned. Alas, it is not to be helped now, I reckon.'

The young Woman nodded, but said nothing. Instead, she moved towards the bed, where she smoothed out the fur that was placed on the end of the bed. As she did so, it only now occurred to the Elleth that the room was in disarray – or in greater disarray that would be expected of the chambers of the King's niece, in any case. Like the night before, the Woman herself, too, looked less kempt, with her hair hanging in loose waves down her back rather than pinned back in the fashion of court.

A sinking feeling overcame Ardhoniel as she connected the dots, the only logical explanation one she did not wish to consider.

When her gaze returned to Éowyn, she found the young Woman already regarding her, a sympathetic expression on her face as she said, 'They will bury him this afternoon.' A moment passed in which neither female spoke, both consumed by dark thoughts which overcome all who live in such unhappy times. Then Éowyn surprised her by speaking once more. 'When the Men leave for war, I intend to join them.'

Seconds passed and when Ardhoniel met her gaze again, she noticed the determined, almost defiant look on her face – and recognised it, for it was one she had often worn as well. Éowyn was expecting her to forbid her, to tell her she could not.

And she should have, of course. She should have told her to stay behind, to take care of the city and the people of Rohan in the absence of her uncle and brother, but she could not. It was perhaps an egocentric sympathy that made her nod her head, a sympathy born from own experience that made her step forward and put a hand on the young Woman's shoulders. Whether Éowyn would be riding to doom or to victory, Ardhoniel realised that it hardly mattered for at least she would have a hand in her own fate. Her blue eyes levelled with the Woman's grey ones. 'If it is your wish, it is not my place nor anyone's to deny you.' At her nod, the Elleth continued. 'Then let this be only a farewell until we meet again. May the Valar watch over your battles, Éowyn.'

* * *

Finding Bruihel would have been a lot more difficult if had not been for Éowyn, who had, upon hearing her next stop, kindly told her the directions to the guestrooms the other Elleth and her family had been staying in. It was a good thing, too, for she knew the hour she had been given was almost over – and that Mithrandir did not take too well too delays, unless of course they were caused by himself.

When she found her, Bruihel was actually just in the process of exiting her rooms. Saying she needed to make the arrangements for their return journey to Walstow, they made their way outside in a companionable silence. It felt like ages had passed since the last time they had had a quiet moment in each other's company without immediate danger pressing down on them. And now that she thought of it, the present moment did not count as such either.

Remembering the initial reason for seeking her friend out, Ardhoniel came to a stop on a plateau in the long stairs leading down into the town. ' _I'm leaving_.'

' _I have heard_ ,' she nodded, then a small smile turned the corners of her lips up. ' _From our friend, Legolas, in fact. I must admit that he has become considerably less insufferable since last I saw him_.'

' _Indeed_ ,' a smile also breaking out on her lips despite the situation. ' _The time away from his father must be doing him some good_.'

Bruihel giggled, before resuming their walk.

' _What shall you do now?_ '

The younger Elleth turned to look at her for a moment, before returning her eyes to the path before her. 'I am not sure. We'll return to Walstow and then… Well, we will just have to see what is left, I suppose.'

Ardhoniel nodded. While they may have survived with their lives, many had lost their livelihood, and it would undoubtedly take many more years before the lands of Rohan would have healed completely from the war.

'What about you?'

'I ride to Minas Tirith,' she replied simply, 'Although for what purpose, I do not know. Mithrandir requested my presence, but I… Well, would you think less of me if I say that I'm scared?'

This time it was Bruihel who brought them to a halt, her hand reaching out to clasp Ardhoniel's. 'I would think less of you if you weren't. As a child, when I would be scared to do something, Aglaron always used to say that true courage is not an absence of fear, but continuing despite the fear.'

Swallowing, Ardhoniel only now realised they were standing in front of the stables – and understood belatedly that this had been the younger Elleth's design all along. A grateful smile passed over her lips, and she pulled her into a tight hug. 'Whatever would I do without you?'

'Absolutely nothing,' she replied, and Ardhoniel could hear the smile in her voice even before she pulled back. 'But fortunately I have enough wisdom to go around for the both of us. So now go, dear Ardhoniel, and don't forget the vow that you made to me in Helm's Deep.'

'I will. And thank you, Bruihel, for everything,' she said, earnestly. 'Until next we meet.'

'Under friendlier skies,' Bruihel reminded her, watching as a smile flitted across her friend's face. Knowing the other Elleth was riding off to war, she knew she could not demand a promise from her – and yet she was relieved to see her nod, before she turned to make for the stable's entrance.

'Under friendlier skies.'

* * *

 **Author's Note: If anyone did not catch on, in this chapter (and the previous one) the implied state of unkemptness of Éowyn and her room was because of the absence of Rhoswyn, Éowyn's maid and fiancé of the Man Leofdred, who lost his leg to a Warg. I'm very sorry for this!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: Hi all and welcome back! This is a rather short chapter and low on action, but it does contain some important insights into two of the most misunderstood characters of the LOTR books and (especially) movies. Curious to hear your opinions about it. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter fifteen: Pride**

Upon entering the stables, Ardhoniel was glad to find she was the first to arrive – and as such had a short moment to herself before the next leg of her journey would begin. With a snort, she thought that at the very least, this time she knew where they were heading.

She started to make her way over to Nimloth, who was waiting in one of the final boxes and neighed impatiently on her approach, when a stablehand appeared out of one of the other boxes, pitchfork in hand and a rather alarmed expression on his face. 'Oh you shouldn't get too near to her! She's not too fond of strangers,' he said, and as he did she noticed the red bite marks on his hand.

'I know,' she responded rather sheepishly, as she stroked the long nose of the animal, 'She's mine.'

The boy's brows furrowed, 'But I thought… Lord Boromir of Gondor, he brought her in you see…'

'Ah yes,' she huffed, the annoyance only a fourth of what it would have been a week ago, 'He tends to borrow her a lot without my approval.'

'I could hardly go off confronting a wizard on foot,' a familiar voice chimed in, jest clear in his tone even before she turned to see his smirking face.

'You could have borrowed someone else's horse.'

'Aye, I suppose I could have. But you were in no condition to ride her, so she would not be missed. Which brings me to the question of how you shall do so now?'

'I will manage.'

'Indeed?'

'Save me from your endless bickering! I did not bring you both on this quest to have you go at each other from the very first morning onwards,' Mithrandir gave them an exasperated look, and Ardhoniel noticed from the corner of her eye that Aragorn, who had followed him in, was trying his hardest not to laugh. Before she had time to voice her – not so friendly – thoughts to the Man, however, the Istar continued. 'Boromir is right, you cannot ride a horse. Neither will any of the other horses be able to keep up. So you shall share it.'

Then, he bent down and picked up one of the Hobbits that had been dancing on the tables the previous night, the same one that had looked rather ill that very morning, she believed – the same one, she realised, that must have gazed into the palantír. 'I hope to arrive in Minas Tirith in four days,' he spoke to Aragorn, 'We will send word out to Rohan as fast as possible. Hopefully, all is not yet lost.'

In the meanwhile, Ardhoniel shared a reluctant look with the Gondorian Man at her side, before leading Nimloth out of her box and saddling her. When Boromir had seated himself, she – with more difficulty than she would ever admit – clambered on top of the horse's high back and settled herself behind him. At Mithrandir's call to depart, her hand moved to the bow on her back, the necklace at her throat, and then finally came to rest on the bead in her hair. Another deep breath, and they were off.

* * *

When they finally stopped for the night on the second day of riding, Ardhoniel was more than a little stiff. They had ridden through the better part of the two days and night, having stopped only every so often to provide the horses – and then mainly Ardhoniel's – some rest. She knew she was not the only one feeling the strain of travel as she gazed around at the Gondorian and the Hobbit, and even Mithrandir was looking a little tense as he descended from the back of the white horse. She felt a small wave of triumph at that fact, although it lasted but short.

With the haste they had been traveling with, there had been little time to simply enjoy their surroundings or even talk to one another. And so it was that as they were unburdening Nimloth, Ardhoniel found her eye falling on the Hobbit once more. 'Boromir?' At his grunt, she continued. 'What did the Hobbit see in the palantír?'

He turned to look at her with an empty expression, the saddle that he had been taking off the horse forgotten in his hands. 'I forget you were not there,' he replied, almost mechanically. 'Pippin saw Minas Tirith. On fire.'

Belatedly, the Elleth realised she had posed the question to the entirely wrong person. However, before being able to make amends, he had moved passed her, and towards the small fire the Wizard had created. With a sigh, Ardhoniel turned to follow, but not before patting Nimloth on the flank. At least she did not seem to be cross with her.

* * *

The continuation of their journey came far too soon, only several hours since they had made camp in fact. Settling herself behind the Gondorian once more, Ardhoniel tried not to cringe at the terrible coolness that radiated off of him. Instead, she turned her head to the side, eyes landing on the nodding head of curly golden hair. After Boromir and the Hobbit had gone to sleep that night, she had asked Mithrandir for a more detailed description of what had happened with the palantír.

'There is little more to it than what Boromir has already told you, I am afraid.' He'd said, honestly, 'Pippin caught a glimpse of Sauron's plan to lay siege on the capital of Gondor, Minas Tirith. In his vision, he saw the city was burning, the White Tree of Gondor with it. Then, his mind became linked with Sauron, who believed him to be the Hobbit to carry the One Ring.'

A silence had followed his words as she processed the weight of his words. 'The Tree of Gondor? That would explain why…' Here her gaze had shifted to land on the Gondorian, who even in sleep looked tensed.

'In part, yes.'

'Mithrandir?' She had urged, when he did not elaborate. 'What makes you say that?'

A deep sigh had followed, then, 'How much do you know of Gondor?'

'Not much of its present state… I know of its history, though. That it once was part of the great Kingdom of Anor, until it was torn apart by war and greed. That its last King was slain during the War of the Ring.'

'Precisely,' he'd interjected, 'And so began the long line of Stewards, from which Boromir is descended. His father, Denethor II, has hold that position for many years, ruling and defending Gondor and its people in the King's stead. Though strong-headed and proud, Denethor was strong of will and wise of character – and more kingly a Man than Gondor had seen in many long years.

'These latter traits allowed him to see into the Stone of Minas Ithil, bending it to his will so that he could see far and wide and learn much of the goings on in the world. But what he saw only served to embitter him, and while he learned much, it was always at the expense of his own life – aging him prematurely and slowly eating away at his psyche.

'Boromir knows this and now, with confirmation that the Enemy has one of the other seeing stones in his possession, rightfully fears for his father's sanity.'

'Do you think he may have changed his alliance, like Saruman?'

A humourless smile had passed over the Wizard's face, 'No. Denethor is too proud to ever follow another's orders. He would accept the fall of Gondor over becoming Sauron's footman if it ever came to that decision.'

'I see that is a family trait then…'

Their eyes had met and if it were not for the bushy beard covering the lower part of his face, she would have sworn he was smiling. Then, he'd returned serious once more, and he leaned in closer. 'It is imperative that Denethor does not learn of the true bearer of the Ring, nor the destination. If this information would be revealed to the enemy either willingly or unwillingly, all may be lost.'

'I understand.'

'We must make sure that Boromir does not forget. While alike in pride, they are quite unlike in any other aspect of their character,' he'd said, his words carrying more weight than Ardhoniel could understand at that moment. 'Now, I think you should get some rest, my dear, we will leave in a couple of hours.

Looking at the Hobbit – Pippin, she reminded herself – now, it was difficult to imagine how such a small creature had ended up becoming so big a part of the situation they were in. And yet, had Bilbo not been the reason that the Dwarves of Erebor had managed to reclaim their homeland? Was another Hobbit not now on his way to destroy the One Ring of Power? Fate, it seemed, hardly cared for the size of a person – only for the size of their character. Of their courage. Of their heart.

She was reminded of a dying Dwarven King's words all those years ago, and she vowed that she would make him proud. That she would be the person that he had believed her to be.

Taking a deep breath, she said, 'At one point, when I was traveling with the Dwarves of Erebor, we were caught by the Elven King Thranduil and locked into his dungeons. Or well, they were, while I was treated as an honoured guest. It was during this time that they found out I did not join their company out of the goodness of my heart, but rather out of my own selfish wish to prove myself. I had lied to them about who I was and what my capabilities were, and now had to pay the price for it. When they escaped to Lake-Town, I was sent off to Lothlórien, where the Lady Galadriel bid me to look in her mirror.'

Here she paused, and while he did not respond verbally, she could tell that he was listening, nonetheless. 'In it, I saw everything I had dreaded. A great battle was waged, and Thorin… the King under the Mountain, was dead.'

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she had to close her eyes as unbidden memories of both the vision and the real moment flashed in front of her mind's eye. She forced herself to continue, 'But Galadriel's mirror shows many things. Past and present, these we cannot change. But the future… All our visions are only glimpses of one possible path, one possible way life may play out. And we have a choice. To accept that path, or to fight and try to change it.

'And so I rode out to the Lonely Mountain.'

A long silence followed her words, and Ardhoniel feared she may have been wrong. Perhaps he was not listening. Perhaps he was still too upset with her to give heed to her well-meant words of comfort.

'But he still died. Your Dwarf… he still died. And so it changed nothing.'

Once upon a time, she would have agreed with him. Even not so long ago, when her heart was still weighed down with grief and hanging on had felt like the very best she could do, she would have acquiesced. And some days, she still did. But then she thought of Fíli, who had found a family. Of Kíli, who despite heartache, still lived to see better days. Of Dís, who still had both of her sons. Of Fíli's son, Thorin III, who would have never even been born if it were not for her interference. And then she was reminded of words spoken to her all those years ago, at the feet of the mountain in an off-handish manner by an ill-tempered wizard. 'You are right; I did not save his life. But I dare say you are wrong about the second. Thorin Oakenshield may have died, but his nephews, his legacy, and his people lived on.

'While we may never know what the future would have been otherwise, I like to believe that we have a hand in writing history.'

More silence followed her words, but she dare say his shoulders seemed a bit less tense following her words, and his back a little straighter. And she felt her own heart lighten at it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Welcome back to chapter 16 already! I know the past few chapters have been a tad uneventful, but I do hope to make up for that with everything that comes after this. Thanks to everyone who has been following this story this far! Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter sixteen: Minas Tirith**

As Mithrandir had predicted, they reached the gap between the Ered Nimrais and the Ephel Dúath in the afternoon of the fourth day. They had ridden through the better part of the four three days and three nights, and by now Ardhoniel was sure all of them were near dead on their feet – or horses, to be exact. As such, it came as a welcome respite when the Istar announced just before reaching the gap that they would rest at an inn tonight. It would be late indeed before they would have scaled all levels of the fortified city, he had explained, and calling the Steward out of bed would do little to improve his responsiveness to their news.

As the setting sun illuminated the valley for a moment all tiredness was forgotten. From their vantagepoint on the top of a small hill, the valley stretched out far and wide before them, the settlements of Men dotting the green landscape. While she could honestly say she had seen many a great work of architecture in her time, nothing could have prepared her for the grandiosity of the white city that was situated on the out-thrust knee of Mount Mindolluin. Even from this distance, she could make out the intricate designs of small towers and domes that made up the skyline of the city, most formidable of which was a tall tower that stood at the most upper layer, and loomed far over the outstretched lands surrounding the city. 'It is beautiful.'

'Aye, it is indeed,' Boromir spoke, his voice reverent as he gazed out over the White City – his home. A short intake of breathe indicated that he wanted to say more, but then all of their attentions were distracted by a dark cloud that seemed to sweep over the fields, quickly moving away from the settlement by the river and towards Minas Tirith. Not a cloud, riders, the Elleth's sharp eyes determined, watching as they flew across the fields towards the city as if chased by Morgoth himself.

That is when the screeches began. It was a sound unlike anything she had ever heard, so utterly horrific that it chilled the very blood in her veins – and that was even before she saw them. From the overhead clouds, the Nâzgul descended on fell winged beasts on the riders on the field. There were three of them, picking up the horsed Men like birds would a worm, clasping down on them, and tossing them from great heights to the ground below as if they were mere ragdolls. It was a merciless slaughter, the Men of Gondor standing no chance against the pure evil that had descended on them from the skies.

Then the horse beside her was in motion, and she returned to herself just in time to hear Mithrandir call, 'Meet me within the city gates!' And just like that he was gone, the true nature of the animal beneath him truly showing as they raced across the plains towards the riders. Both she and Boromir watched with baited breath as he neared them, unsure of what even the White Wizard could do against such darkness. And then there was a bright light, so bright that it hurt their eyes even from their faraway position, chasing the dark shadows back to the East, and across the Ephel Dúath back to their homelands.

A moment longer they stood there, hearts racing as their minds struggled to process what they had just seen. A showdown between good and evil. The first of many, they would soon learn. Then at last Boromir flicked the reins, and the spell was broken.

In reality, it was a mere quarter of an hour until they reached the city gates, and yet Ardhoniel couldn't help but note that it felt much longer – whether from anticipation or fear, she did not know. The truth was that she could not help looking up every once in a while as they crossed the empty expanse in front of the city, fearful that the wraiths could return at any time. The truth was that, confronted with such pure evil for the first time, Ardhoniel questioned her decision to come on this journey.

'It's Lord Boromir,' one of the guards called from atop the large gates, his voice revealing his surprise. 'The Captain of the White Tower has returned. Open the gates!'  
Ardhoniel found her lips involuntarily twitch at hearing the title, her mind recalling the first time she had heard it – and her own surprise at it. Yes, they had come quite a bit since then.

Before she had time to comment on it, however, the large gates had opened, and she spotted Mithrandir, standing among a group of horsed Men who she presumed were the riders from the field, and talking to a Man who looked disturbingly familiar. All humour forgotten, she felt her mouth go dry as she took in the young Man who, though looking terribly weary, was seemingly unharmed. And alive. _Faramir_.

As Boromir pushed Nimloth in their direction, Ardhoniel couldn't manage to tear her eyes away from the young Man, even when they pulled up right beside them, and the younger Man took in their arrival.

The frown on his face almost instantly vanished, making place for elated astonishment. 'Brother!' He called, voice as unbelieving as the Man at the gate had sounded, before he reached forward on his horse and pulled Boromir into a one-armed hug. 'We thought… With the length of your absence, coupled with reports of hearing the Horn of Gondor so close to our borders… Well… You were believed to be dead, brother.'

A silence followed, and it might have become unbearable if Mithrandir did not choose this exact moment to speak, and steer the conversation towards the nature of their errand. 'Well, we had some hurdles along the way of coming here,' he started airily, as if one of those "hurdles" was not his own death at the hand of a Balrog – if what she'd heard told was true, and when it concerned the Istar she had no doubt it was. 'The important part is that we are here, carrying grave news. We need to speak to your father at once.'

Here, Faramir nodded, although Ardhoniel noted that the weary expression had returned to his face. 'I needed to report back to him about our mission anyway, we may take the trek up to the Citadel together.'

As their party got back into motion, Faramir riding in the middle of the Wizard and his older brother as he filled them in about recent developments in the war against Mordor, Ardhoniel was reminded of the inn that they would supposedly stay at. The warm meal and comfortable bed that would have been theirs to enjoy for the night. Apparently that was off the table. Gazing past Faramir, she concluded that she was not the only one to grieve at their loss, as the Hobbit looked equally miserable and twice as tired as she herself felt. When his eyes briefly met hers, she offered him what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, before tuning back in to the unfolding conversation.

Or rather, that would have been the plan, had her gaze not – quite unconsciously – locked back onto the younger Gondorian. True to the mural she had seen, there was an undeniable likeness to Boromir. They shared the same hair colour, the same strong nose and mouth. And yet his face was much kinder, his gaze more forgiving, and she found that even without really knowing him she felt an almost natural liking towards him. However, more so than his likeness to his brother, she was struck by how alive he looked. He was a Man even before the prime of his life, his spirit though weighed down with the evil times they lived in still young, his eyes though familiar with war not yet hardened to it. And she felt a pang go through her heart at knowing what lay in store for him.

Forcing her gaze away from the Man, finding that the very sight now made her ill to her stomach, she observed the people of Gondor for the first time since their arrival – and found them already observing her. Or rather, the Man she was now seated behind. Son of the Steward. Captain of the White Tower. Judging from their expressions, which ranged from surprise to outright disbelief, she supposed Faramir had not lied when they'd thought him dead. However, and much to her own dismay, she found the looks they got were not _just_ directed at Boromir, but also at herself – and she found herself growing uncomfortable under such scrutinization. Like their kin from Rohan, the people of Gondor were grim and weary looking, a look that was expected to characterise all those who have lived their entire lives under the shadow of darkness, although perhaps carrying that look with more poise. Whether she preferred that to the boorish, but honest, manner of the Rohirrim, she could not yet tell.

'… Ardhoniel? Lady Ardhoniel?'

Looking up, Ardhoniel was quite surprised when she noticed they had come to a stop underneath an arch, and found the others in the process of descending. 'Pardon me?'  
Boromir sighed, before climbing down from Nimloth and extending his hand to her. 'We have reached the final gate to the Citadel. We will have to go the last bit on foot.'

'Ah,' she simply said in response, wanting to ignore the offered help but being reminded – quite painfully – of her injuries as she swung one leg over Nimloth's back. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed a hold of Boromir's hand and allowed him to pull her down to the ground.

As they started through the arch, she felt Mithrandir slide up beside her before he said in a low voice, 'Remember what we talked about.'

Humming, she shot a glance to the side, noticing Boromir had fallen into step with his brother. Even knowing him as little as she did, Ardhoniel found it hard to believe that such intervention be required. And yet, the urgency in the Istar's voice both now and in their midnight conversation suggested he did not share her conviction. She furrowed her brow at her confusion as to what could have caused this distrust. Her musings were interrupted, however, as they passed out of the arch and into a stone courtyard known as the Court of the Fountain among Gondorians – and her eye fell onto the dead white tree that stood in the middle of it.

'That's the tree!' The Hobbit said excitedly, as he rushed up to catch with Mithrandir's longer strides. 'The tree from the vision! But it is dead already?'

'Yes, the white tree of Gondor,' the Istar hummed, noticing Faramir's confused glance, 'It has been dead for many years – ever since the death of the Ruling Steward Belecthor II if I remember correctly.'

'But why do they not remove it?' The Hobbit's gaze flashed to the armed Men that stood around it, 'Why do they still guard it?'

'Because it is a symbol, Master Hobbit,' it was Faramir who responded, his voice patient as he explained, 'A symbol of Gondor and of its people. That once this darkness passes, it will endure. And flourish once more.'

Pippin nodded, looking as if he wanted to say more when they stopped in front of a large set of heavy doors. Mithrandir turned to his companions, and the Hobbit in particular, with a stern expression – one, she could honestly say, Ardhoniel had seen directed at herself one too many times. 'Our first and foremost purpose is to inform Lord Denethor of the pending war and to get him to light the beacons. At this point, I believe it would be most unwise to bring up Frodo. Or the Ring. And it's probably good not to mention Aragorn either.' A short silence followed as she, Boromir, and Pippin nodded, before Mithrandir added. 'In fact, Peregrin Took, I reckon it's probably better if you do not speak at all.' Then, after one last glance in her direction – as if to remind her of his warning – he pushed open the heavy doors.

Ered Nimrais ~ White Mountains  
Ephel Dúath ~ Mountains of Shadow


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: First of all, I wish to express my condolences to all the victims of the shooting in New Zealand and now also to those of the shooting in the Netherlands. Our thoughts go out to them and their families.**

 **Moving on, I want to say to you all "welcome back ! I hope you all are safe and had a nice weekend. Enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter seventeen: Silent halls**

Passing over the threshold, Bruihel was not certain whether she was struck more with familiarity – or disenchantment. These were the walls that had witnessed much of the lives of their family, the rooms that had held many of the fondest memories that she had. For a long time, these halls had been her life. While they had stood the test against the destruction wrecked on it by Orcs and the Gwathuirim, it was a small mercy as she took in the ravage inside. Most of the furniture had been moved and broken, probably in a search for valuables that she knew they would not have found in the main house. Precious objects, such as children's dolls and drawings, were strewn carelessly across the floors of the home, some still in one piece though most were damaged in one way or another. Outside, they had already confirmed most of their cattle taken, the remainder dead – as were many of their neighbours.

She set her teeth as she passed further into the house. They would endure. They would have to. Somehow.

* * *

Once the doors swung open, it was akin to passing into a graveyard. The hall they entered was deep and wide, tiled in sombre black and white. In the arches that they passed, Ardhoniel spotted statues of regal Men, their stony eyes following them as they made their way to the end of the room, where, by the foot of a large throne, sat a living Man.  
And living though she called him, he looked to be as old as Mithrandir, with grey hair that hung limply to his face, deep lines etched into his face as he gazed up at their approaching party. And then suddenly, from that lifeless face, a smile was produced and – with effort greater than should have been needed for a Man his age – he stood from his chair.

'Lord Denethor,' Mithrandir greeted, though he might as well have remained silent, for the Man, who indeed was the Steward himself, passed him by without a second glance. Instead, he made for the oldest of his sons.

'My son,' he spoke in disbelief as he clasped one surprisingly strong hand on the Man's shoulder, 'You have returned. You have returned to me. They said you had fallen, but I knew you would return to me.'

'We come bearing grave news, Lord Denethor. And advice,' Mithrandir interjected urgently. 'The enemy is closing in on Minas Tirith as we speak, its sole purpose the destruction of Gondor as we know it.'

'You say you have news, but I have yet to hear anything of novelty,' Lord Denethor replied, his voice calm but laced with a spite that was not even attempted to be hidden. When his head turned to look at the Istar, his eyes were blazing. 'Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? That the guard of Gondor has sat by idly until your arrival? It's through _our_ efforts that the remainder of Middle Earth may sleep peacefully in their beds.'

'Father…'

' _Our_ blood that has kept the remainder of Middle Earth safe,' Denethor continued, ignoring his oldest son's attempt at diffusing the situation.

'Safe indeed,' Ardhoniel wanted to say, thinking on the situation they had left Rohan in, but wisely kept her mouth shut. There was something about the Lord of Man that made shivers go down her spine – and she was quite happy avoiding his piercing cold eyes for now.

'We have just arrived from Rohan,' Mithrandir replied diplomatically, wielding more patience than she'd thought him capable of, 'Which has been under constant attack of the Hillmen and Orcs under the direction of Saruman. While Saruman has at last been defeated, the enemy will now turn its eye on Gondor.

You are not alone in this fight, Lord Denethor, Gondor yet has allies. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons.'

A silence followed, and Ardhoniel mistakenly expected the Steward to have seen reason behind this proposal. Instead, he sat back down in his chair, eying the Istar mistrustfully from under his grey brows. 'You think you are wise, Mithrandir. Yet for all your knowledge, you have not wisdom. I have seen more than you know, and I know who brought Rohan the victory at Helm's Deep. And I tell you know that I shall not fall for your ploy to replace me. I shall not bow to this Ranger, who hid away while the blood of _my_ people was spilled to keep these lands safe!'

Seeing the fire burn in the Istar's eyes, Ardhoniel was surprised that it was not him who replied first. Instead, a low voice spoke up, tone calm yet so full of conviction that the Elleth had to turn to confirm that it was indeed the Gondorian she had come to know as pessimistic at worst, and stoic at best. 'You speak of what you do not know, father. Aragorn has done much for the peace of Gondor and the whole of Middle Earth. Once the time comes for him to reclaim the throne, I should be proud to follow him.'

Several moments of silence passed, and then said Denethor, quite warily, 'Get some rest, my son. Your travels have been long and you must be tired. I will have your room prepared.'

'But…-'

'Given that your brother is also here while he was tasked with the defence of Osgiliath, I imagine he has something of import to tell me. Go, my son, we can speak more in the morrow.'

Probably realising his father would not listen to any further pleas and entreaties on their behalf, Boromir nodded tersely and made to turn. They made it about two steps – Ardhoniel almost counting her blessings at finally leaving the terribly tense situation – when Lord Denethor called out to them once more. 'Your time on the road has affected your manners, my son; you have yet to introduce me to your companions. Will you not tell me who I have the pleasure of hosting.'

'Ah,' Mithrandir stepped forward, cutting off anything that the young Man could have said. 'Allow me. This is Master Peregrin Took of the Shire, a personal… _friend_ of mine. And this is Lady Ardhoniel, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell, granddaughter of the Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood. Learning of Gondor's plight, Lord Elrond send her to your aid. With the gift of foresight running strongly in her family, she may be a valuable asset to Gondor yet.'

If Ardhoniel was surprised by this completely unexpected, and downright erroneous, version of her biography, it was little in comparison to the sharp intake that could be heard from her side, where stood Boromir.

Luckily, it appeared this information appeased the Steward, for while he did not reply verbally, he did nod – an interested expression appearing on his face as he watched the company leave, wheels in his mind already turning with this new information. As they passed out of the silent hall and left the youngest son of the Steward, Ardhoniel couldn't help a sense of foreboding – and she shivered at the look he'd given her.

* * *

The chamber she was given was grand in both layout and interior. The entire area encompassed three rooms, a bedroom, a bathroom, and then a small sitting room that opened up to a balcony. The furniture in these rooms was made of a rich dark wood, the sheets of a fine and smooth texture, and many of the chamber's walls, corners, and empty surfaces were decorated with fine pieces of art and pottery. Far more importantly than the furniture and decoration, however, Ardhoniel found that in the adjoined bathroom, a tub filled with steaming water was already prepared for her.

Quickly stripping out of her tunic and breeches, the Elleth let out a sigh of contentment as she slipped below the crystal clear surface. As she started scrubbing away at the dirt on her arms, her mind wandered back to their confrontation with the Steward – and found a frown made its way back on her face almost instantly.

Of course, the idea of her possessing any measure of foresight was absolutely ridiculous – and Mithrandir knew this as well. That her presence here in Gondor would have been fuelled by anything else than a Wizard's obnoxious meddling was only further proof that something was going on. Given that it was Mithrandir she were thinking of, the possibility that he'd just made up the lie on a whim was off the table, which left some kind of a plan as the only other viable option. Indeed, he must have thought some advantage might be gained from masquerading her as a gifted seer on a mission to save Gondor – although what that advantage may be, she could only guess at. She silently cursed the Istar, who quite without her knowledge or consent had turned her into a pawn of his game.

Looking down at the once clear surface of the water, the Elleth noticed her skin was once again free of dirt or grime, but that her limbs appeared murky underneath the waterline. With so much time on the road, she had almost forgotten the contentment that was to be gained from being clean, and she relished in it a moment longer before reaching out to take up a towel that was laying on a small stool near the bath – clearly for her use. After toweling off, she returned to the bedroom and found, to her surprise, another piece of fabric lain out for her.

Advancing on it, she finally identified it as some sort of bedclothes when she stood beside the bed and carefully touched a finger to a sleeve. It was a creamy thing, with lots of ruffles, layers, and long enough to cover her from the chin down to her ankles. She found her nose wrinkling at the prospect of having to wear the frilly, uncomfortable-looking thing, and so picked up the green Rohirric tunic and redressed in that. Just then, her stomach growled loudly, and Ardhoniel was reminded that it had been many days since her last real meal. Deciding a light snack would be in order, she made for the door and pulled it open – only to reveal a small Hobbit, hand raised, and a rather startled look on his face.

'I eh… Gandalf h-he asked me to come and find you – but obviously you already knew that given that…' He gulped, 'He said you would be staying in one of these rooms, he did, although I wasn't quite sure which one because he did not tell me. It's about… He wants to talk about the eh… Well you know, about… He didn't tell me actually about what, actually… There's food.'

Through the garbled mess of his speech, the Elleth managed to make out several important words. Gandalf. Talk. Food. The first two she could deal with, if that would mean her stomach would be filled. She nodded, 'Then lead on, Master Peregrin.'

Bobbing his head, he started down the hall and she easily fell into step with his much smaller strides. He did not speak to her as they traversed the hallways and climbed some stairs, but she did notice him shooting glances at her every once in a while when he thought she wasn't looking. Pippin, in the meanwhile, was trying his very hardest to think of anything but the strange Elven lady beside him, afraid that she would be offended by his thoughts of her, but couldn't quite supress his curiosity – quite as per usual. Ardhoniel was about to ask him about this when he stopped in front of one of the doors that lined the hall. 'Ah, we are here,' he said, his voice more high-pitched than she remembered it being.

The room they entered was spacious like hers had been, with dark wooden furniture and a door to the side that she suspected also led to a private bathroom. Beyond the bedroom area, the chamber also contained a small sitting area consisting of a low table filled with bread, fruit, and wine, and several comfortable looking chairs – one of which that was occupied by a certain Gondorian, who was currently staring pensively out of the open window.

'Ah Ardhoniel, it is good you have come,' Mithrandir greeted amiably, and she noticed Boromir going rigid in his chair. 'Although the urgency was not so high you could not have redressed into something more… appropriate, my dear.'

Feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment, Ardhoniel only now realised she was still dressed in her tunic, whereas the others still were donning their day clothes. Then, remembering who she was speaking to, she found her embarrassment turn to anger, and a frown marred her face as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. 'You had _no_ right. No right at all, to tell Denethor I can see the future!'

'I said no such thing,' he replied in a vexingly calm tone, 'It was merely implied.'

'Merely implied,' she repeated, scoffing. 'And for whatever end, may I ask? What shall we gain from this deceit?'

A knock on the door interrupted their argument, and both looked up to find the youngest son of the Steward entering the chamber. Once again, the Elleth found herself fall silent at the sight of him – and the Istar cleverly made use of her moment of distraction by taking a step into the young Man's direction. 'Faramir, it is a good thing you could make it. We have much to discuss.'

'Then we best get to it,' he replied amiably, and for a second his gaze caught Ardhoniel's. The next, he turned it back on the Wizard with difficulty, 'I will have to leave early come morning.'

'Tomorrow morning?'

'Yes, brother. Osgiliath needs to be reclaimed, especially if the tidings you bring are true; we shall need all the defences we can get if the Enemy is to wage war on Minas Tirith.'

'But surely it was abandoned for a reason? If father has put you up to this…'

'He has, but he is right. I am going on my own volition.'

'I can talk to him. He will listen if I…-'

'There's no need, I assure you. This is not the first battle I have fought in your absence, my dear brother, I will be fine. You need not worry.' When Boromir argued no further, the young Gondorian nodded, then returned his attention to Mithrandir. 'What was it you needed of me?'

'Insight,' the Istar replied, yet all Ardhoniel could think of that moment was the bruised and broken body of Faramir, 'War is coming, whether Gondor is ready or not. Aid may come, but the beacons _need_ to be lit. You know better than anyone else at this moment the mental state of your father. Can he be turned to see reason yet?'

A long silence followed before Faramir responded, and when he did there was a grave expression on his face. 'Light them by whatever means necessary. If he is yet to be persuaded, we cannot wait for it.' Then he looked around the room, and gave a short bow. 'If that is all, I must take my leave of you now. Goodnight.'

A heavy silence followed the Man's departure, before Mithrandir spoke again. 'Then we must take matters into our own hands. The beacons must be light tomorrow morning. We may quarrel with Denethor later.'

While he said this Ardhoniel could not tear away her gaze from the door – even as she felt the Istar's heavy gaze resting on her person. And then, before he could stop her, she ran from the room.

Luckily, Faramir had only made it as far as the top of the staircase and she cried out for him to wait. He looked perplexed by her appearance, but still waited for her to catch up with him.

'You cannot leave,' she told him, stepping close enough to be able to see the flecks of blue in his grey eyes. Another difference with his brother, she thought fleetingly. 'Please, you… have Boromir talk to your father, he will have him see reason!'

'While touching, your worries are unneeded, my lady. I…-'

'It will be the death of you!'

Faramir did not immediately respond to her blunt admission, and she feared she had scared him off entirely – or perhaps have him think she was some kind of crazy woman. 'If such is the faith the Valar have destined for me, I should gladly lay down my life for Gondor.' He bowed, 'I wish you a good night, lady Ardhoniel.'

She could hardly tell how long she had stood there, before footsteps resounded behind her and she turned to find it was Boromir, expression once again guarded as he approached her. At her questioning gaze, he replied simply that Gandalf had requested he bring her back to her room.

They walked for a few moments in peace, before he asked, in a voice that was probably supposed to sound casual but was anything but, 'What did you speak to my brother about?'

For a moment, she felt relieved to find that at least he had not heard her admission of his brother's impending death. While telling the Man in question had been a rash decision, she could not say she regretted it. Telling Boromir, however, she could only imagine would turn out badly. 'Nothing of importance,' she started, trying to sound nonchalant. 'I merely wanted to wish him safety on his mission.'

He did not respond, and for one precious moment she thought he had believed her. They stopped in front of the door to her room and she was already reaching out to the handle when he spoke again. 'Do you know… Do you have _intimate_ relations with my brother?'

'Valar no!' She near-cried, part flabbergasted, part mortified. 'What makes you think that?'

'You haven't taken your eyes off of him since we met Faramir at the gate this afternoon. Who is to say you two haven't met already.'

'I am! I am to say. Don't you think it would have come up sometime during our acquaintance if I knew your brother?'

'I would not know. Apparently it also failed to occur to you to mention you are the daughter of Elrond of Rivendell. Or was that a lie, too? What am I to believe, when so far you have been only truthful to me once pressed.'

Her instinct was to rise up as well, to throw some insult or another at him in return. Instead, she found he was right – and she admitted so, shamefully, realising that she had indeed offered him little information on her own volition. Opening her door, she gestured for him to follow before seating herself on the edge of her bed. When he remained standing in front of her, she said wearily, 'What is it you wish to know?'

'Why did you not tell me you are Lord Elrond's daughter?'

'I did not think it mattered. And then I suppose I thought you'd know, knowing of my time with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.'

'And you are truly not involved with my brother?'

'I am not.'

'Then how do you know him?'

'I don't, I…' She sighed, 'I cannot tell you how I knew _of_ him, only that I did.'

The Gondorian frowned deeply, 'How can I trust you when you will not speak openly?'

Biting her lip, Ardhoniel considered once again revealing the truth to him. What would happen if she did? He would stop Faramir from going to Osgiliath, most likely. Faramir would live – but there was no telling if everyone else would. What if Faramir was meant to go Osgiliath? What if him attempting to reclaim Osgiliath was pivotal for whatever came next? Another sigh escaped her lips as she realised that she could do nothing but have faith that she was doing the right thing. 'I saw a glimpse of the future, in which he featured.'

'So then it is true that you have the gift of foresight?'

'No, I… When I nearly died, I woke up in the Halls of Awaiting with Thorin. There I gained a little insight into some of the major events of the World – both its past and future.'

When he did not respond, Ardhoniel thought she had satisfied any questions the Man may have. Then, one last question followed, one she could at the time not place in his previous line of questioning. 'Do you still love him?'

At first she had thought he was still speaking of his brother, and the question had confused her for she had just established that she did not even know him. Then, she realised the true nature of his enquiry – and found it confused her all the more. 'I do.'

Boromir nodded, 'Thank you for answering my questions; I will leave you to your rest now.'

'Boromir,' she called out, unsure why she did so but knowing the pained look on his face made her own heart clench. She stood from the bed, her eyes locking with his, 'You are a good Man, with a good heart. Do not let it be weighed down by things outside your power to change.'

Gwathuirim ~ Dunlendings


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Welcome back all to chapter 18. I hope you've had a nice weekend and a good start of the new week. As of yesterday, I have now decided on how I wish to end this story (which is not for a few chapters, so don't worry). It wasn't necessarily the direction I was hoping to take this story but, as all my fellow co-writers will probably know, sometimes we have no control over what happens. The characters have a story and I'm just writing it up! Anyways, enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter eighteen: A call for aid**

An astute knock roused her from the realm of dreams the next morning, and Ardhoniel opened her eyes to a lavishly decorated bedroom – and the events of the previous day came rushing back to her, just as the knock returned, this time accompanied by a voice.

'My Lady? Is my Lady awake?'

She sat up in bed, immediately regretting the absence of the warm covers on her skin. While it was true that she had rested well that night – and had needed it, too – she certainly would not have minded spending another hour or so simply lazing about in the bed. 'I am,' she called out instead to the unfamiliar visitor. Forcing herself out of the warm and comfortable bed completely, she called out, 'Give me a moment,' as she quickly slipped her tunic back over her head and her breeches up her legs. When all was sufficiently covered – she did not want a repeat of the previous night – she made her way to the door.

The Man who stood outside was of medium height, slim of build, and had a funny looking moustache that sat heavily on his upper lip. Both moustache and his hair were greying and if she were to venture a guess she would pin his age as somewhere halfway between Boromir and his father – which, truth be told, did not tell her all that much. What _was_ informative was the grey of his garbs and the relatively low make of the fabric. A servant, she would wager.

He stood up a little straighter at seeing her, 'My Lord Denethor invites the Lady to break her fast with him if she pleases.'

By now, she had more than enough experience with court diplomacy to know that such an invitation was rarely issued openly, and knew that whether she pleased it or not she would be sharing her meal with the Steward. With a small nod and the promise that she would return shortly, she disappeared back into her room to pull on her boots, brush her hair and, just in case, slip her dagger into one boot. Then, with obvious reluctance, she allowed the servant to guide her through the still silent halls.

The Man did not speak to her, and so the Elleth was left to take in her surroundings. Like the rest of Minas Tirith, these quarters were built out of white stone, the insides of which were decorated by ancient tapestries and long rugs that protected the feet for the cold. At one point, it may been beautiful, homely even, but now she could not help a chill from seeping into her bones that had nothing to do with the lack of sunshine. Shivering, she was glad to exit the building and step out onto the Fountain Court only to find with some dismay that the sun had yet to rise – or perhaps it simply did not, this close to Mordor.

Before she could give the morbid possibility more thought, they had come up to the double doors making up the entrance to the Tower Hall. When they entered, they passed through the large hall in which she yesterday had an audience with the Steward and into a smaller, but no less intimidating antechamber in which a large table had been set with fresh bread, fruits, and butter. She would have gladly tucked in, were it not for the Man who was already seated at the opposite side of the table, calculating her every move through sharp vulture eyes.

* * *

The sun was only just rising – or it was in places far removed from Mordor – when Boromir, son of Denethor, made his way across the Fountain Court, a Hobbit by the name of Peregrin Took close on his heels, nearly running to keep up with the Man's long strides.

'This is the White Tower of Ecthelion, Built by King Calimehtar and later restored by the Steward Ecthelion the First, my ancestor. From its top, the sharpest eyes can see as far as the falls of Rauros.'

'And what are we going to do again exactly?' Pippin wanted to know, mind still muddled from sleep. With four days with only the shortest of naps, he would not have minded to sleep in for a bit, before going to break his fast on the freshly baked bread that he had smelled on waking. Instead, he was rushing after the tall Gondorian, climbing a seemingly endless stair that was always that little bit too large for his short legs.

'Light the beacons,' Boromir replied, looking at the young Hobbit. 'I am sure my father will see reason after we have talked, but the Wizard is right. Time is of the essence and I much prefer the Riders of Rohan to arrive too early rather than too late.'

The Hobbit nodded his agreement, although he was still a little fuzzy on the details of the beacon. Surely no fire, no matter the size of it, could be seen all the way in Rohan?

When they at last reached the top of the long stair and Pippin had taken a short moment to catch his breath, they stepped out onto a small platform – and the Hobbit found his breath immediately taken away once more. They must have been at least 300 feet above the Citadel and the Fountain Court, thousand feet above the lowest tier of the city that now appeared amusingly small to him. Then, as he looked up and out on the surrounding lands, he realised that what Boromir had once said during their travels was true. The White Tower _could_ see all. When his eye fell on the furthermost mountain range, and the dark clouds above it, he felt an instinctive shiver move up his spine at the knowledge of what – or rather _who_ – lay behind.

'Come,' the Gondorian urged, although he took some small amount of pride from seeing the Hobbit so utterly captivated by the beauty of his homeland. He wished only that he could have shown it in a better time.

They passed over a narrow bridge that connected the White Tower to the mountainside, and up to the small plateau that housed the beacon of Minas Tirith*. At seeing his approach, the two guards on duty immediately stood up, their expressions as surprised as they were disbelieving – an expression Boromir was quickly growing tired of. 'Captain Boromir,' they addressed him, 'You have returned.'

'Evidently,' he responded dryly, yet he forced himself to suppress his irritation. 'I have come with an order to light the beacon.'

'Light the beacon?' The youngest of the two repeated, with dark shoulder length hair and matching beard. His face seemed familiar, but his mind could supply him with no name. It mattered not. 'But that means war is coming?'

'Is it not always so here in Minas Tirith?' Boromir returned, fast growing impatient as their expressions turned to one of worry, but neither of the two gave any inclination of going to carry out his order. 'Well? What are you waiting for?'

'We are not allowed to light the beacon unless with Lord Denethor's expressed approval,' the oldest replied apologetically, yet sheepishly. 'The…-'

'Am I not still the son of the Steward?' He inquired, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Am I not still Captain of the White Tower? Captain-General of Gondor?!' They seemed stunned by his outburst, and perhaps he would come to regret it at a later time. At the moment, however, all he could see was that despite their unease, neither of the Men made any move towards the beacon. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the Men – and towards the small Hobbit that he had completely forgotten about for a moment, the look in his eyes one that made Boromir feel rotten to the very core. A look he had seen directed to himself by one of the Hobbit's kin before, and would forever haunt his nightmares.

'I see this is to no avail,' he said in a quieter, weary voice. 'Let us return to the Citadel for some breakfast.'

With Pippin's nod, the two started back towards the staircase in silence. Beside the shame, Boromir was fighting the sensation of uselessness that was threatening to creep up on him. Not a year had passed since he had set out for Rivendell, and already he felt like they had moved on without him. That they did not need him. The one person whose regard for him had seemingly gone unchanged was his father, but he found that he cared less for it than he had before his departure.

'I will light the beacon,' a soft voice suddenly piped up, and Boromir was half-surprised to find the Hobbit still behind him.

Turning completely, the Gondorian lifted an eyebrow as the young Hobbit stood a little straighter. 'The beacon is placed on an edge of the platform; there is no way you can sneak past the guards unnoticed.'

'There is no way that _you_ can sneak past them,' Pippin corrected him, rather matter-of-factly, 'But Hobbits are very light on their feet, you see. Why, Mr. Bilbo once sneaked past a live dragon; I am sure I can manage two drowsy guards. Besides,' he continued, excitement growing on his face as the plan began to take shape in his mind, 'I wouldn't go past them exactly.' He moved towards one of the windows and pointed towards the cliff that housed the beacon.

'The fall would kill you,' he butted in, adamant to make the Hobbit see reason. But of course that is where he should have given up, for as we know Hobbits, while relatively peaceful creatures, are incredibly stubborn. And Pippin was a prime example of that.

'I will not fall,' he replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest and puffing it out a little to appear resolute. 'And I will not be caught. But you must go, for your presence would attract far too much attention.'

Faced with a losing battle, Boromir bowed his head in surrender, before continuing his way down the stairs alone.

* * *

She gave a quick bow, which the Lord returned with an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and then hastily sat herself at an empty plate and cup – the only ones, she now noticed. Putting the napkin in her lap, she avoided eye contact with the Man as she inquired quasi-nonchalantly, 'I hope I have not kept you waiting too long, my Lord. Am I the first to arrive?'

'I am not expecting any more guests,' he replied simply, as he picked a piece of bread from a tray. 'It has been a long time since we have seen any of your kind here – and one of your statute and _abilities_ , too.'

A sick feeling entered her stomach and while she had quite lost her appetite, she picked an apple from a silver platter. If all other defences failed, she at least had that to throw at him. 'I thank you for the courteous words, Lord Denethor,' she said, choosing her words carefully. 'But I would not consider myself worthy of such special attention.'

'Nonsense. Tell me, what was this grave news that you had?'

'That war is coming.'

'You saw this?'

'Yes,' she replied, thinking it preferable over telling him that Pippin had seen it in a palantír – which may lead the conversation towards subjects that she would rather not discuss with the Steward, such as Frodo and the Ring.

'And what was it you saw that led to such a dire conclusion, might I ask?'

She took a bite from her apple to buy herself more time as her mind searched frantically for a believable response. One misstep would be enough for him to see through her, and then her whole charade would be blown. Finally, her mind latched onto a wisp of speech, barely even a sentence, that Mithrandir had spoken back in Edoras, and not even to herself. 'Black ships, making up their way along the coast.'

'Black ships?' He repeated, brows drawn in deep thought. She thought he would have asked her more, but instead he busied himself with the food on his plate for several minutes. When his head turned up at last, his face was expressionless once more – and his line of questioning so different that it threw her off for a moment. 'What news is there from the other side of the Misty Mountains?'

I don't know, she wished to tell him, for I have not been there for nearly as long as you have lived. But of course she could not tell him that. Nor could she tell him of the finding of the One Ring, the one thing that she did know, for obvious reasons. All that left her to do was lie – but she knew from experience that that only rarely ended well. 'Not much that my Lord would not already know, I'm afraid. The roads have become ever more dangerous, and Orc attacks are happening ever closer to my father's borders.'

'Then my son was lucky to have you by his side.' He took a sip of wine, 'Remind me how you came to be his companion again.'

She tried to recall the reason Mithrandir had given the previous day, but found her memory failing her as the Lord's sharp eyes buried into hers. 'A dream.'

'A dream?'

'Of Gondor's plight – and a voice telling me that to help Gondor I should trust Boromir.'

'What a coincidence that it was also a dream which brought my son to Rivendell in the first place. I take it he told you about this?'

Not at all. 'Of course.'

'Then you, too, are aware that "Isildur's bane", the One Ring of Power, has been found.'

She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words forming on her lips, and so she quickly disguised the action by taking another bite from her apple. As she chewed carefully – and slowly – she considered her next action. Clearly, the Steward knew more about the Ring than they had initially thought. And hoped. But what was the extent of his knowledge? Tell him too little, and he may not believe her. Tell him too much, and he may accidentally share precious information with the enemy. Swallowing, she replied, 'The One Ring of Power has long passed out of our reach.'

'Indeed,' Denethor grumbled, just as the door to the antechamber swung open – and Ardhoniel found herself visibly deflate at the reprieve. Noticing it was his eldest son who had entered, the Steward continued, in a louder voice, 'If only Faramir had honoured his father's wishes, the Ring would now be in Gondor. Here, we could…-'

'Faramir has seen the Ring?' Boromir interjected, rather rudely.

'And let it go. In the hands of a Halfling no less.'

From the younger Man's face, it was clear that this news was somehow meaningful to him – and the Elleth was reminded that he had travelled with the Hobbit in question for some time.

Just then, the door burst open again, and a young Man came rushing in, clad in armour with an image of the White Tree adorning the breastplate. 'My Lord,' he called, in between deep intakes of breaths. 'The beacon… the beacon has been lit.' For a moment, she saw the Man's gaze shift towards Boromir, before coming to rest back on the Steward.

Denethor's eyes flashed wildly across the room, first to her, then to Boromir, before coming to rest back on the guard – who rightfully cowered a little under its weight.

'Who gave you the order to light it?'

'W-w-well, you see…-'

'Who gave the order?'

'Nobody, my Lord. We were on our posts and then suddenly it was lit.'

'Suddenly it was lit?' He repeated, incredulously, before falling quiet. 'Mithrandir…'

And just like that he stormed out of the room – and she, Boromir, and the guard were left to follow. In truth, she shouldn't have been surprised that the Steward knew exactly in what guestroom to find the Istar – but she was a little when he marched up to the door and, without any warning, threw it open.

In the moment that followed, she found herself grateful for the shadow of Mordor, happy for the blocking of the sun and the cooling of the nights. For while looking positively peeved with the interruption of his sleep, Mithrandir was thankfully covered from the neck down.

* * *

The hand that was moving a lit match up to his pipe came to an abrupt halt as a small flicker on the horizon registered in his sharp eyes. Dropping the match and stuffing the pipe hastily in his pants, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, rushed up from his perch on the stairs and ran inside. After nearly colliding with one of the King's Men, he burst into the Golden Hall. 'The beacon is lit! The beacon of Minas Tirith is lit!'

* * *

* **Author's Note:** I know in the books, Minas Tirith does not actually have a beacon, and that the initial warning signal is issued via the Red Arrow. However, in this case I kind of liked the involvement of the main characters in sounding the alarm (as is the case in the movie).


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to chapter 19. I hope you are having a nice April Fool's day and had a fun weekend. About this chapter, I just want to say that I really hate it in terms of how it's written, but I just can't seem to get it right. So sorry in advance. Anyways, have fun!**

* * *

 **Chapter nineteen: Kin**

Soon after barging in on the sleeping Wizard, Denethor had retreated from their company to the uppermost room of the White Tower of Ecthelion. When Boromir revealed it to be the location of the palantír, Ardhoniel was relieved to have gotten through his previous interrogation of her relatively unscathed.

With war looming – quite literally – on the horizon, there was enough to occupy the Captain of Gondor and the Istar, however, and as they launched into a discussion on the best tactics for the defence of the city, Ardhoniel and Pippin suddenly found themselves at a loss of what to do. Stepping outside of the Tower Hall, they silently walked past the White Tree as their gaze lay on the clouds that darkened the eastern skies – and they felt a shadow fall over their own hearts.

'What do you say we explore the city for a little bit?' Ardhoniel proposed, trying to keep her tone light. 'I reckon Mithrandir and Boromir will be in council for another couple of hours, so we best find something to entertain ourselves.'

With little else to do, they immediately set out. They had only walked around the sixth level for half an hour, when they stumbled upon the training grounds of the guards of Minas Tirith. The duo stood and watched the Men go about their business for a little bit, before Pippin revealed he had a sword of his own – but that he feared it would do him little good once the war found them.

'And what makes you say that?'

The Hobbit shrugged somewhat despondently, 'I haven't had a whole lot of practice with it. Boromir tried to practice once with us – me and my kinsman, Merry, that is – but the only time I used it in an actual fight I don't think I did much damage.'

'Well, you cannot expect to be an expert swordsman in one day,' she jested. Then, sending him a comforting look, she asked, 'Perhaps we can train a little together now?'

'You… you would do that?'

'Of course,' she said, starting towards the armoury in search of some practice swords. A smile twisting at her lips, she called over her shoulder, 'Although I cannot promise to live up to the standards that Boromir has set as a teacher.'

Moments later, and with the permission of the Master-at-Arms, the duo had found a quiet corner of the training grounds, and she was running him through the basics. While certainly no naturally gifted swordsman, Pippin proved to be quite efficient at dodging her attacks and off-balancing his opponent – as Ardhoniel soon found out, after nearly keeling over herself.

'I'm sorry,' the Hobbit said sheepishly, looking down at his feet, 'I'm afraid I'm not very good at the blocking.'

'No, don't apologise,' she replied, after righting herself. 'You are likely to find yourself facing an opponent that is both taller and stronger than you. You _should_ try to use it against them. Trip them if you can; Orcs are much easier to cut down when they are already on the ground.'  
Pippin cracked a smile at this, but he was spared a response when another familiar voice cut in, humour colouring his voice. 'That is the strangest advice I have heard on these grounds – and I have heard a lot.'

Turning, the Elleth and Hobbit found that Boromir and Mithrandir had joined them on the training grounds, both sporting an amused expression. Lowering her sword, Ardhoniel merely shrugged, 'That may be so, but I find that sometimes the most unusual strategies are the best.' Then, taking in their wearied appearance, 'Are your councils done for the day?'

'In part,' the Gondorian replied, 'But the remainder will take us across the city; I thought perhaps you two might wish to join us under the guise of a tour?'

* * *

Bruihel gazed about her, golden head bowed slightly to avoid hitting the wooden beams that held up the rest of the house. It was the only place that had gone unravished by Orcs and Gwathuirim – most likely due to the scrubs that grew just in front of the latch that led to the basement. Overall, it was a small comfort, as for the most part the space was filled with items of little meaning or value. Some of the old clothes of Éadig's daughters and son, some extra blankets for the winter. There was one exception to this, however, and Bruihel found herself immediately making for the otherwise unassuming chest that stood in one of the corners of the space. Swiping a finger across the top, the thick layer of dust was evident of the time that had passed since last she had touched it. The same time she had put it there, she recalled. Nearly fifty years ago.

Lifting the top, she carefully reached inside and pulled out the heavy fabric that lay inside. The sight of the rich green and shimmering silver brought a smile to her face despite the situation, and she gazed at it for another moment before pulling the outer tunic out of the chest completely. Next followed a chainmail, heavy boots, gloves, helmet, and finally, her hands grasped the royal green of a cloak. As the warm fabric brushed against her hand, her eyes closed and she was reminded of the manner in which she had acquired it.

'And what could I give to the Elf who has helped protect these lands?' Thengel had asked her, after he had gifted Éadig with a sword worthy of royalty.

'Nothing, my Lord,' she had replied, 'It was an honour to serve my King and his people.'

'But you wish to remain here, with them?'

'If I am allowed.'

A kind smile overcame the Man, one she would one day also find in his son, 'Then my gift to you will not be of the material kind. Let my people be your people. Let this country be your country. You will always have a place in Rohan, as long as you wish. Let you be known as Bruihel _of the Rohirrim_.'

While the name she had received was not material, the two sets of exquisite Rohirric armour that had arrived several days later in a chest were most definitely. They had remained in the chest ever since, neither Éadig nor her having any real reason to use them. Until now.

'You are leaving?' An accusatory voice called, and she turned to find it was Sefleth. The young Woman stood several feet away, hands balled into fists and a stormy expression on her face. Truthfully, the anger was not unexpected, for of all of Éadig's children, his youngest daughter had always gravitated most towards the Elleth. Bruihel had, however, hoped to avoid it until the moment of her actual departure.

'Yes. The King has called for all warriors to ride to Gondor and…-'

'But… you can't go! We need you here. Others can go!'

'Others have done their share of warfare, _hên nin_. I once swore allegiance to this country and its King. I will now gladly honour that pledge.'

'Then I shall come with.'

'Sefleth…'

'I have had as much training as my brother; I can hold my own. Please, Bruihel, I wish to go.'

The tilt of her chin, the crossed arms in front of her chest, they all transported her back to a summer day many years ago, when she had told a young boy of her brother's death and had wished to leave afterwards. But he had not allowed her to go, at least not without taking him with her. While it was Éaden who took most after his father in appearance, it was Sefleth who did most in spirit. And like then, Bruihel did not have the heart to tell her no.

* * *

Dinner that night was another Steward-less affair, which Ardhoniel couldn't quite say she minded. While still rather strained due to war looming on everyone's minds, at least she did not have to weigh and measure every word that she uttered for fear of revealing too much. Even so, she could see the frown on Boromir's brow deepen with every passing second, and by the end of the meal he made sure one of the servants would bring up a tray to his father.

Afterwards, she retreated to her room, where she had another bath, only to find on return that her clothes were gone – most likely for cleaning – and in their place lay a simple deep purple gown. Given that it was most certainly preferable over the frilly nightdress (and over walking around in the nude), the Elleth quickly slipped into the dress and found to her surprise that it fit her moderately well. While still a little short at the bottom following court fashion, it was not improper nor looked entirely silly. She quickly brushed her hair and braided it out of her face. Satisfied with her work, she stepped back from the mirror and found her eyes once more returning to the glass doors that opened up to a small balcony that looked out at the Pelennor Fields and, beyond, to the Ephel Dúath. It seemed that here in Minas Tirith, it was impossible to escape from the shadow of Mordor, its evil ever present in the eyes and minds of its inhabitants.

Looking upon it, Ardhoniel felt her throat go dry as the sheer reality of the situation once more crashed into her – and the grand room suddenly felt all too confining. She turned away from the balcony and, without sparing another second, marched out of her door.

She didn't know how long she'd wandered the cold and empty hallways, uncertain of where to go but certain that she could not yet return to her room, until she happened upon the wooden door. Not that that was, in itself, something out of the ordinary, as all other doors were also fashioned out of wood. However, what was curious, and what caught the Elleth's attention, was the fact that she could feel the cool night wind permeating from underneath the door. Looking left and right, she carefully reached for the doorknob, and found it was unlocked. Surely they would have locked it if it were forbidden, she argued to herself, although it did little to dispel the feeling of unease. Nothing could have prepared her for what lay behind, however.

When the door swung open, she was at first at a loss of what exactly it had opened up to. The entire area covered perhaps fifty square feet, enclosed on all sides by tall white walls, but with an open roof. An inner courtyard. Only the plants had completely overgrown, the flowers died, and where there had once been beauty and life she now only found decay and death. Stepping deeper into the area, she found that most of the remaining plants were rose bushes, the flowers long dried but the thorny limbs stretching out over a cobblestone path that led towards the centre of the courtyard. Mindful for her bare feet of the thorns, Ardhoniel carefully stepped over the treacherous limbs and towards the stone bench that stood in the middle of the small garden.

Clearing the surface, she sat down with a heavy sigh. It must have been a beautiful place once, she mused, as she again surveyed the garden around her. Now it had twisted into something of despair and death – much like the remainder of the world these days.

Hanging her head, her fingers played with the end of her braid as she considered the truth of this statement. There was still good to be found, of course, little moments of joy, of happiness, such as when she had sparred with Pippin this afternoon. Yet ever was it marked by the increasing darkness of their times. Soon, it would come to a climax, whether for good or for bad. And she would be here, right where the storm would hit hardest.

A creak alerted her to a new arrival, and she looked up to find Boromir standing in the doorway of her secret retreat.

'I noticed the door was open,' he explained, 'Nobody has come here for years.' She wasn't sure what to say to that – or to ask – but was luckily spared her answer as he took a step deeper into the courtyard, then halted. 'Would you mind if I joined you?'

At her response to the negative, the Gondorian continued his journey to the stone bench. His gaze turned pensive once he'd seated himself and several moments passed in which either just stared out at the wild flora around them.

'This was my mother's garden,' Boromir said at last, 'Before she died. I was but a small lad at the time, hardly able to hold a sword.'

'I'm sorry for your loss. What was she like?'

'Like my brother,' a soft smile graced his lips that she was certain was not meant for her, but was instead the response to a memory.

'You and him seem quite alike,' she observed.

A moment of silence passed before he hummed. 'In looks perhaps, but not quite so in character. Indeed, we have been like fire and water as long as I remember. When I would run off for sword practice, Faramir could typically be found with some book or another in his hands. I was always the warrior, the captain – whatever my father needed me to be. Faramir was… not quite unlike my father actually. But kinder. Infinitely kinder. In that regard he is much like my mother, who also always saw the good in everything.'

She nodded, but said no more. Instead, Ardhoniel was reminded of the way Denethor had treated and talked about his youngest son – and thought about the irony that it would be the son most like him whom he would like least.

She wanted to ask him whether it had always been so, but when she turned to him, she found Boromir's gaze heavy and shoulders weighed down as he stared out at the far wall. 'What is on your mind?' She ventured to ask instead, studying the lines of his face as if they held the secret to his thoughts.

The Gondorian moved his eyes to briefly meet hers, before returning them to the wall. Even if he would be completely truthful with her, he was unsure of what his answer would have been. Much occupied his mind these days, many things that he was only just beginning to understand himself. Ever since nearing death on the slopes of Amon Hen, there was a part of him that had started to doubt all that he had been taught – all that he had been raised up to be. He had always held the highest regard for his father, would have followed his orders without questions to whatever end. Now, he found that while his father was wise, he was also proud, and his pride was starting to blind him from seeing the truth. And now he had sent his brother to what may very well become his death.

From birth onwards, he had been groomed to one day take his father's place. He had never truly wanted the position, preferring instead the simplicity of war and battle over the intricacies of politics and ruling. Now, with war on the horizon, he was unsure if there was still a future for Gondor. And if there was, if they would still have a Steward. And if it would be him.

He found his gaze returning to the Elleth beside him, who had taken to fingering the bead that was weaved into the thick braid that laid over her shoulders. He felt like a lifetime had passed since she had saved him, a lifetime since she had first told him he may be worth saving. And yet he felt like, after all their conversations, he knew next to nothing about her. There was a growing part of him that wanted to ask her, that wanted to hear where she had been, how the paths of her life had brought her before him as she was now. But of course he couldn't ask. And she would not tell.

'It is nothing, my Lady.'

Gwathuirim ~ Dunlendings  
Hên nin ~ My child  
Ephel Dúath ~ Mountains of Shadow


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back to chapter 20 already. For now, I want to thank _Beagle Brother_ for sending me a PM about last week's chapter; it's always nice to hear someone enjoys my work! :) ****At this point, I think we are slowly (very slowly!) nearing the climax and then end of this story. I estimate there will be around 5 more chapters. And I just want to say: I'm so so so sorry in advance (not just for this chapter, but all that is to come).**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty: The eve of battle**

That night, she had the most peculiar dream, involving white castles, knights, and snakes, but as is oft the case with dreams, most of its contents were forgotten at the moment of waking – leaving her with an unexplainable yet undeniable sense of confusion.

Cracking one eye open, Ardhoniel gazed out of the window, finding the sky decidedly lighter than on her waking the previous day. In other places, where the shadow of Mordor lay not yet as heavy, the sun may already have been making its ascend. Here, well, she would have to settle for a foreboding twilight.

With some difficulty, she rolled out of bed and started to put on her attire as she considered what the day would bring. It had been two days since they had arrived at Minas Tirith, two days since they had first tried to break – and had failed to break – the news of the pending war to Denethor. Yesterday, Faramir and his Men had left in an attempt to reconquer Osgiliath, had the beacon of Minas Tirith been lit, had she been subjected to interrogation at the hand of the Steward. Another memory of the previous day came to mind, this time featuring the Steward's son. Boromir had looked decidedly troubled, though by what she did not know. These were troublesome times, and it would have been more surprising to find someone who was not bothered by them than someone who was. Then again, Boromir did not appear to her as the type to be troubled by war – not like others were at least. If anything, and as she had already observed at Helm's Deep, it seemed to be the one thing in which he was completely in his element. Time could only tell if it would be enough, however…

Shaking her head to dispel her pessimistic thoughts, she fastened her tunic before leaving the room – and finding Pippin making his way towards her.

He stopped, staring somewhat sheepishly before scratching his curly head. 'Gandalf asked me to find you for breakfast. Said he and Boromir would be discussing battle strategies for the better part of the day with Denethor.'

For once she was grateful for the Istar's attentiveness. While she now knew the Steward would be occupied – she felt a small amount of accomplishment at the news that he was involved with the battle plans – she would not put it past him to find some way or another to still try to press her for information. Nodding, she gestured for him to lead the way.

They walked a couple of minutes in silence, when the Hobbit looked up at her with a difficult expression, as if wanting to say something but not being sure how to say it. 'I was meaning to ask you something,' he started hesitantly, 'Well, I mean of course you know that already…'

'Pardon?' she said, not understanding his meaning.

'By reading my mind. You must already know what I wish to say – just as you knew I was coming to your room.'

An amused smile turned up the corners of her lips and she couldn't even find it in herself to be angry with the Istar at that point. 'I see Mithrandir forgot to fill you in.' Seeing his blank expression, she clarified, 'I can't read minds.'

'You can't?' He visibly breathed out. 'No one's?'

'None whatsoever,' she confirmed. 'You seem relieved.'

An adorable blush crept up his cheeks, 'Well, I… It's not…'

'It's unsettling, is it not?' She provided, to which he nodded. They had arrived at the kitchens, a large area filled with enough food to feed a small Hobbit town. Once one of the servants spotted them, they were immediately seated at a large wooden table in a somewhat less crowded corner of the area, with a promise of food and drinks being brought to them shortly. Once the servant Woman had left, Ardhoniel turned to the Hobbit, a conspiratory grin on her face, 'I have lived for many years in Lothlórien and I still feel unnerved when Galadriel invades my mind.'

'You do?!' Noticing some of the servants had taken to looking at them, he turned red again – and continued in a softer voice. 'I mean, yes. It was a very… uncomfortable sensation.'

Just then, several plates of breads and fruits were set in front of them, along with a decanter of water, and Ardhoniel fully expected the Hobbit to tuck in immediately. When he did not, and instead took only one peach which he turned around in his hands, she found her eyebrows raise in concern. 'Is everything alright, Master Pippin?'

He looked up briefly, before returning his gaze to the fruit. 'Well,' he started at last, slowly, 'it's about what I wanted to ask you, actually. I asked Boromir to become Guard of the Citadel, you see. I thought when the battle comes, it would be nice to have a post somewhere, to have a place when…' He trailed off, unsure how to end a sentence that could obviously have no optimistic ending. 'Would you help me to train again today?'

A kind smile overcame her – and Pippin suddenly understood why Mister Bilbo had always looked so flustered when talking about her. 'Of course – but first eat. No great warrior ever achieved anything on an empty stomach.'

Thirty minutes saw them finishing up their breakfast, with Pippin surpassing her expectations of what even a grown Hobbit could eat, and make their way back outside towards the training grounds. They were just passing over the Fountain Court, however, when three Men came rushing through the arch they were just about to leave through, holding up a limp and clearly unconscious fourth. Upon closer inspection, Ardhoniel realised that he looked eerily familiar.

'Faramir,' Pippin cried, running up to them and confirming that which the Elleth had already feared. He looked nigh unrecognisable, with blood caking most of his face and his hair. One of his eyes was hidden underneath the bloody mess, the other was strained shut, as if even in unconsciousness he could not escape the pain he was undoubtedly in. A stab of guilt ran through her, realising she could have prevented this.

'My son,' a voice, normally so poised and cold, called out hysterically, and the fur-clad form of the Steward rushed past her, along with a fourth guard. He took hold of the lifeless hand of his youngest son, desperately calling the name of the younger Man, but to no avail. 'He is fading, already,' he stated grimly, whether to himself or to someone else, Ardhoniel did not know. 'Bring him to his room, where he can be cleaned and made comfortable until death takes him.'

'He is still alive, my Lord,' Pippin countered, voice excited as he registered a small movement from Faramir's eyelashes. 'He needs medicine. A Healer!'

'I can aid him, my Lord,' Ardhoniel offered. 'I have still some her…-'

'You! This is all your doing!' His accusation effectively silenced her, and even Boromir and Mithrandir who just arrived to the scene remained quiet as the Steward turned on her, grief intermixed with ire as his gaze fell on hers. 'You knew of the black ships advancing on our coasts. You knew that my son was to die.'

'These wounds were not caused by any weapon of Men, Lord Denethor,' Mithrandir spoke up suddenly, stepping closer to examine one of the many wounds that littered the young Man's body. 'Which means that the corsairs of Umbar are still sailing up Gondor's coasts as we speak.'

'That is what you would like me to think, would you not, Mithrandir?'

'He speaks true, father,' Boromir interjected, not meeting her gaze even after stepping past her. 'These wounds were caused by arrows of the crude make of the Orcs of Minas Morgul.'

As Boromir tried to convince his father to have a Healer look at his brother, Mithrandir approached her as inconspicuously as possible. In a low voice, he said, 'I think for now it would be best to make yourself scarce, dear.'

She nodded and, when she was finally able to draw away her gaze from Boromir, quickly made her way to the training grounds.

* * *

They arrived at the encampment near dusk, the mountain already throwing large shadows on the Men and horses, and chilling the air. Bruihel pretended not to notice the obvious shift as they rode up the winding path to the upper platform, but she could not help but pick up on the obvious unease of the Woman who rode beside her – and that stirred in her own heart.

Instead, she busied herself with surveying the camp that lay beneath them. It would have been an impressive force for any other war. But this was not any other war.

They arrived at last on the small outcropping that overlooked the rest of the encampment. Like the area below, the small platform was filled with tents and Men and horses – with the exception of one corner that had gone oddly untroubled. As she gazed at it, she found another wave of unease wash over her. The Dimholt.

'Bruihel, look,' Sefleth urged her, voice soft and muffled from within her helmet. 'It's the King's niece, Éowyn.'

Tearing her gaze away from the shadowed corner and the road that lay behind, Bruihel found the Woman standing near one of the tents, arguing with a young Man who she believed to be her brother, Lord Éomer. Taking of her helmet, Bruihel stepped up to the duo.

'My Lady. My Lord,' she addressed, bowing her head in respect – and thus missing the relieved and somewhat satisfied look the Woman wore. 'I have come to offer my services to the King. Can you tell me where I might find him?'

'Your services are most welcomed,' Éowyn spoke vehemently, casting a last glance at her brother before she stepped forward. 'Come, let me take you to my Uncle; I am sure he will be glad to know you are here. And Lord Éaden, too.' She nodded towards the second armoured figure, who bowed their head in response.

* * *

It was Pippin who later came to tell her that Denethor – and Boromir – had retreated to Faramir's chambers, and so that it was safe for her to have the evening meal in the dining room. She did so with no small degree of reluctance, and the absence of the two Men did little elevate the guilt that she felt as she trudged the silent halls of the fortress.

Pippin tried to make light conversation with her, speaking about his new position as Guard of the Citadel and the outfit he had been given, but it did little to lift her spirits – not in the least because the outfit, as she had been told, had been Faramir's. Even so, Ardhoniel was grateful for the Hobbit's attempts, because at least it told her he was still on speaking terms with her.

She spent the meal mostly in silence, listening with only half an ear as Mithrandir discussed the upcoming events with Pippin. War had almost reached the city of Minas Tirith, the greatest battle of their time only hours away if what the Istar said was true.

She should have felt nervous, anxious, yet found even the direness of their situation did little to fill the hole in her chest. How curious it was that in times like this the loss of one mortal life seemed to weigh more than the potential end of the world. Perhaps it was not the loss per se, she thought, but rather her own part in it. If the world was going to end, there was little she alone could do to hinder it. Whatever she did, it would probably matter little in the final balance. But Faramir… She had known of his fate, had been able to change it. And she had not. In that moment, she had chosen the fate of the world over the fate of one Man. How curious it was that in times like this the loss of one mortal life seemed to weigh more than the potential end of the world.

Dinner was neigh over when the door burst open and a guard rushed in. 'Mithrandir! The enemy is approaching!' And just like that, the pretence of calm was shattered, and the trio rushed out onto the Fountain Court. Looking east, they watched as a seemingly endless dark mass crept across the fields, a soft drum reaching their ears that spoke of the moving of thousands of heavy feet. With her sharp eyes, Ardhoniel distinguished forms among the cloud that swept across the Gondorian lands, large trolls, heavy war machines, and wooden towers built for the single purpose of raising Minas Tirith to the ground. By the time morning came, all that they knew may be gone.

'Get Lord Boromir,' Mithrandir ordered the guard, who rushed away immediately. 'It has come at last,' he said then, a deceptive calm to his voice as he gazed out onto the lands. 'The battle of our time.'

'What happens now?' Pippin asked, seeming to become even smaller in the face of such evil.

'We fight.' A soft smile overcame the Istar, and he put a hand on the young Hobbit's shoulder. 'You will stay here, as would be fit for a Guard of the Citadel.'

'Where do you need me?' Ardhoniel asked, almost mechanically. Even when faced with the full reality of what they were up to, the fact that all of this was real had yet to set in.

'The Houses of Healing are on the sixth level. Your services may be of use there.'

'I can fight,' she interjected, though the objection lacked its usual fire.

It was at this moment that Boromir joined them on the Court, his stoic gaze also turned out towards their impending doom. Another spike went through the Elleth's heart at the sight of him and when she returned her eyes to Mithrandir, she bowed her head in acceptance. 'I will see you when the battle is over. Stay safe my friend.' After clasping Pippin's shoulder in comfort, and casting another glance at Boromir, she made her way back to her rooms to gather her things.

Contrary to her intention, however, she ended up sitting on the edge of her bed for a moment, staring out at the far wall as the steady beat of the approaching army grew ever louder. She knew there was no time to dally, and yet could not find it in herself to move just yet. What it was she was waiting for, she was unsure, until a knock on her door roused her from her thoughts.

The door opened before she had time to respond, and it was to her greatest surprise that Boromir stepped in. He was already dressed in full plate armour, an image of the white tree painted on the breastplate – and Ardhoniel was left to wonder exactly how much time she had wasted already.

She stood and bowed her head, 'Boromir…-'

He held up a hand, face pained as he gazed out of the window over her shoulder. 'I came…' he started, only to fall silent again. Several long moments of quiet passed them, with only the steady drum to keep them company. 'I don't know what to believe – _who_ to believe,' he admitted at last, speaking fast, frustrated, 'My heart wishes to believe you innocent. My mind calls me a fool for doing so.' His face suddenly whipped towards her, his gaze burning into hers – though not in an all unpleasant sort of manner. 'I know not what sentiments you have unleashed in me, Ardhoniel of Rivendell, but I find myself bewitched by your very presence, longing to learn more about you, yearning for you when you are not there. I know now is not the time to speak of such things, but I fear now may be all that we have left.' He stepped forward, breaching the last feet separating them. One hand snaked into her hair and then his lips were suddenly on hers.

In another life, she may have loved him, she found herself thinking unexpectedly. In another life, not complicated by grief and death and mortality, she may have found herself in love with this terribly stubborn, but good and honourable Man. And perhaps she did even now. With the part of her heart that she still possessed, she may have loved him. But just as she realised this, she realised that it was not enough. He deserved to be loved fully, by a Woman who would be as devoted to him as she knew he would be to her.

And so when he broke away at last and she opened her eyes, she found they were flooding with tears even as she gazed upon the Man who looked upon her with confusion – and regret.

'I apo…-'

'I knew,' she admitted then, her breath barely a whisper as it escaped her lips, and she watched his face crumble. 'I knew of Faramir's fate. Ever since the Battle of the Hornburg.'

'Why? Why did you not tell me?'

'Because I feared you may wish to change it.'

He remained silent, yet when she dared to gaze up to his face she knew it was not from a lack of anger. 'Why tell me now?'

'Because you deserve to know the truth.' She stepped closer to him, glad that he did not move away immediately, yet dejected by how rigid he had gone. She tried not to think of how much the situation resembled a similar talk she had had with Thorin in the Elvenking's dungeons. And yet, if it was anything like it, she knew she would not have to worry about his feelings for her any longer, for he would want to have nothing to do with her after this. 'Because I do not wish to lie to you anymore. I did what I thought was right for Arda, but I realise that by doing so, I did not do right by you.

'Your father will try to burn both himself and Faramir on a pyre,' she continued, 'Most likely before the battle is over. _That_ is what I have seen.'

He nodded, then, without looking at her again, made for the door. Almost as soon as he stepped away, she felt the absence of his warmth, of his person, and she called out his name in desperation.

When he turned back to her – perhaps for the last time – she felt her throat close up, unsure what it was that she wanted to say, but unable to let go of him just yet. 'Faramir knew,' she blurted, 'I told him, before he left for Osgiliath. He knew of his fate and went regardless, for the sake of Gondor.'

His grey eyes met hers a moment longer, filled with an emotion that she could not place even if she had wanted to, and then he was gone. She stared at the place he had last stood, her heartbeat echoing the powerful war drum. Then she grabbed her things and, without a second glance, left in the direction of the Houses of Healing.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: Hello all! I hope you had a nice weekend and a good first day of the week. I want to thank for their review of the previous chapter; I am glad that despite not seeing it coming you liked it! As for this chapter, I will warn you that there is a lot of switches in the p.o.v. so pay attention. In addition, well... I'm sorry. Anyways, enjoy (and don't forget to tell me your thoughts)!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-one: The battle of the Pelennor Fields**

The remnants of his confrontation with the Elleth still lingered in his mind and on his lips as Boromir strode through the busy streets, the drum of war now so loud that it surpassed the chaos around him. He had called for an evacuation of the lower levels of the city, and many of the people were still scrambling to get themselves and their loved ones to higher ground. They would be safer there, in case the front gate was breached – although he did not wish to dwell on the battle turning ill too much. He had spent the last two days strategizing, planning, thinking of what needed to be done for his people once the battle started; now he could finally do what he knew. What he was good at. What he was born to do.

Many of the guards greeted him as he made his way to the front gate, the looks of surprise and suspicion replaced by desperation, all looking at him to make it right. And they had no reason not to. He had always led them people to victory before. He could only hope that he would not fail them this time.

He climbed up on the walkway that ran over the gate, putting his own worries, his own fears, aside as he turned to face the scared faces of his Men. He was reminded of a time not so long ago when he had stood similarly in front of his Men, raising the Banner of the White Tower in victory after the reclaiming of Osgiliath. _"Remember today"_ he had told Faramir then, _"Today, life is good."_ He could only hope that it would be so, once more.

'Soldiers of Minas Tirith. Of Gondor. My brothers! Countless of times you have followed me into battle. Together, we fought in Osigiliath, Cair Andros, the Crossings of Erui. I ask you to follow me once more. Let us stand together in this fight against evil. Let us stand together and defeat it. For Gondor!'

'For Gondor!' They echoed, a look of inspired hope on the face where until now he had only seen despair and fear. They would need it for what was to come.

* * *

She did not know how long it had been since she had arrived at the Houses of Healing. How long it had been since all hell had broken loose. And in fact, Ardhoniel thought grimly, as she cleaned another gruesome battle wound, she did not want to know. Whether it was mere minutes or hours or days, the injuries had been too numerous, the wounds too grave, for the battle to be going well. The chaos of battle was growing ever louder, ever nearer, the drum of war now infused with the cries of dying Men.

They were fighting a losing battle. She knew this, yet did not voice it. Nor did she admit that most of the Men they treated would most likely never again see the light of another daybreak. That their supplies would run out soon at this pace. That if the gate would be breached, whoever they saved in their little sanctuary would still fall to the Orcs and evil Men that were laying siege to the city. She didn't voice it. But she could not help think it.

The Healers of Minas Tirith had gladly accepted her offered help when she had arrived at the Houses of Healing. There was one elderly Man whom she presumed was the Head Healer. He had been the one accepting her offer, even going as far as to quickly show her where all the medicine and bandages were kept before the first wave of the injured had hit them. There were two young girls, barely on the cusp of adulthood, who served as assistants to the older Man and another Healer with wide eyes and shaking hands. The final occupant was a grown Woman, with lines already beginning to form on her forehead and in the corners of her eyes. If she were to guess, Ardhoniel would estimate her to be about the same age as Boromir.

The thought of his name alone was enough to nearly cause her to cease in her motions, a swirl of emotions bubbling up that she could not identify even if she had wanted to. The memory of his lips was still fresh in her memory, the way they had felt pressed against hers still crystal clear. It had been her first kiss, if one were not to count the time where she had kissed a boy when she was still an Elfling to win a bet, or the time that Kíli had kissed her in the enchanted forest of Mirkwood. A first kiss… That should have been special. That should have been with the one that she loved.

Strangely, she could not find it in herself to feel robbed. Maybe one day, she would regret it, would regret that it happened with a Man who was not her One. Today, all she could do was try not to think about the possibility it may be the one thing she would have left of Boromir after the battle.

The door burst open. A not so noteworthy fact, since people had been rushing in every other minute for as long as she had been there. The call of her name, however, was new.

'Ardhoniel!' Pippin repeated, running up to her, face flushed as he breathed heavily. 'It's Denethor.'

She truly did not need to know more, for those words alone brought her vision back to mind. While what was happening was no mystery to her, _how_ it could have happened was. 'But… how? I told Boromir, he would've…-'

'Not now! We need to stop Denethor before… I'll tell you on the way.'

She nodded in understanding, hastily wiping her hands on her tunic and grabbing her things, before calling to the Head Healer that she was leaving. Seeing the urgency on her face, the Man could do nothing but nod and watch as the strange duo rushed out of his Houses of Healing.

The streets outside were in chaos. Although the people of Minas Tirith had been ordered to stay indoors, many of them were still scrambling about the narrow streets, many trying to locate loved ones in the heat of battle. Pippin grabbed hold of her hand, pushing a way through the throng of people, as he explained in between loud breaths.

'Boromir tried to reason with his father… About Faramir… But Denethor wouldn't listen… Said there was no saving him… Just before the battle, he locked him into his room… Just so he couldn't do anything drastic, you know… I was stationed near his room…' He turned to her then, slowing down, his face pale as he relayed the next words. 'He killed a guard, Ardhoniel. A guard brought him dinner and he stabbed him with a letter opener. Said that if no one would give his son a proper farewell, he would. I saw him ordering a guard to get wood and oil before I came to find you.'

'Then we need to hurry. Let's go!'

They started running again. They rushed up to the seventh level, the city walls falling away to expose the true enormity of the evil that was, quite literally, on their doorstep. As if the situation was not yet dire enough, just then, nine winged figures dropped from the skies, their screeches chilling her to the bone as they descended on the city – and one coming right for the Fountain Court.

There was no escaping the Ringwraith as its fell beast landed between them and the entrance to the Tower Hall. Realising the futility of the action, Ardhoniel still pulled out her sword, pushing the Hobbit behind her. When the wraith turned its gaze on her, she felt her blood run cold, her hands quivering as they held onto the hilt of her blade.

The wraith took a step forward, dark robes billowing as the long fingers on its hand stretched out in her direction. Her mind screamed for her to run, to fight – to do anything. Instead she stood, as paralyzed, her sword all-forgotten as she gazed into the shadows that shrouded the inside of its hood.

'Come with me, Elf-witch,' it hissed, the words despite hardly more than a whisper crystal clear to her petrified mind.

When he took another step forwards, she pushed her sword forward, keeping the wraith at bay though she knew her time was running short. There was no way she would be able to fight one of the Nazgûl and live. And if she allowed it to carry her to whatever place it was destined for, she knew that what awaited her would be worse than death. But if she came willingly, she may save Pippin. And suddenly she found that it didn't matter. She had come back because she'd still had a role to play in Arda. By coming back, she had unconsciously accepted whatever role that may be. If this were to be her fate, then she could not turn back now.

Swallowing, she found her sword lowering on its own accord. 'Go,' she told Pippin, her tone deceptively calm. 'Find Mithrandir.'

Pippin's cries of protest along with the rest of the world faded to the background as Ardhoniel undid the silver chain that hung around her neck, unclasped the bead from her hair, and unstrapped her sword. The first two she gave to the Hobbit, the last was dropped carelessly to the ground, before she closed the last feet between herself and the wraith – and sealed her fate.

* * *

They arrived at Minas Tirith at the dawning of the third day. During the ride, it had been difficult to keep her mind from drifting to what was to come, but she had managed, if only because she spent most of the ride fighting her own exhaustion. But now, as they rode over a large ridge in the Gondorian landscape and Minas Tirith came into view at last, so did the full extent of the hopelessness of the situation – and Sefleth felt her heart drop. She knew Bruihel knew it too, for when the Riders came to a stop, the Elleth discretely leaned over.

'Do not fear, _hên nin_ , I am with you. I will protect you.'

She gave a stiff nod in response, clamping her jaws together to stop their shuddering as Théoden King passed in front of them, words of death and ruin on his lips. Somewhere in the background, the horn of Rohan was blown, its echoes rippling over the battlefield as the Orcs of Mordor were alerted to their presence.

'Death!' The King called, the cry so brutally honest that it sparked a flame of desperate courage in her. This was it, she realised. The deciding battle.

'Death!' She cried, along with the other Riders. Whether for that of their enemy or their own, she did not know – and it hardly seemed to matter at this point. At least, she thought in the seconds that followed, she was happy that it was her, who had neither spouse nor child to grieve for her. It was a small relief, and yet she clung to that strand of recklessness as the army started the charge.

* * *

Pippin wasn't quite sure how he had managed to find the Wizard, but when he did, the young Hobbit's face was flushed red and he was on the verge of tears. Upon noticing him, Gandalf quickly finished off the Orc that had attempted to make its way passed him, before raising his bushy eyebrows in surprise. 'Peregrin Took, what are you doing here? Were you not tasked with the guarding of the Citadel?'

The question reminded the young Hobbit of what had initially brought him to seek out Ardhoniel – and what had indirectly led to her capture. 'Denethor has gone mad and thinks Faramir is dead. He is going to burn him on a pyre,' he remembered, mind clearing somewhat as he remembered the urgency.

The Wizard's eyes grew wide in alarm. A second's indecision past over his face, before he reached out from on top of his mount and pulled the Hobbit in front of him. With a flick of the reins, they were flying, Gandalf requesting him where to go.

'Denethor was saying something about the "Hallows". But Gandalf, there is something else…'

* * *

What happened next was utter chaos. One moment their army charged, as one, on their foes. The next, her companions were shot down left and right as the others descended on the Orcs like water on rocks. For her part, Sefleth simply tried to remain seated, slashing her sword to ward of the attackers, but mostly allowing her steed and the momentum do most of the work. And for a time, it worked. For a time, it seemed they may be on the winning hand. Orcs were scattering, shying away from their blades and spears instead of meeting them in battle.

The sound of a horn somehow reached her ears over the chaos of battle, yet it was not like anything she had heard. Glancing up, she felt her heart come to a standstill, realising that their enemy had not been defeated. They were simply preparing for the second wave.

The horn was sounded again and this time she located it as coming from on top of the head of the largest creature she had ever seen. With massive paws, a large trunk and lethal tusks located on either side of its snout, the animal was dangerous even without the dozen archers that were posited on its back.

'Stay away from their paws; they could crush you in one step,' Bruihel called helpfully as she rode past her. Whether she had been there the whole time or had just arrived, Sefleth couldn't tell, eyes still fixed on the massive creature. 'We must stay in motion; that is the only way we stand a chance. Stay with me, _hên_ _nin_.'

Pulling at the reins, Sefleth followed in the She-Elf's trail, manoeuvring her horse between the animals and taking out as many footmen and Orcs as possible. She was doing moderately well, even delivering some blows to the leathery skin on the creatures' paws, when one of the animals suddenly came down – and she lost sight of the Elf. Slowing down her horse, the Woman gazed around her in confusion – and increasing panic. Then a force crashed into her side.

She ended up being dragged forward by her horse for several minutes, before she eventually managed to unwind her hand from the reins of the by now panicking horse, and rolled through the dirt until coming at last to a stop against the dead body of one of her kin. Quickly coming back to her feet, she gazed around for her horse, but the creature was nowhere to be found. Either fled or stomped to death, she did not know, nor did she have time to consider it as her initial foe charged onto her once more. He was one of the Men of the East, riding a black mount and a wicked curved blade in his hand as he swiped out at her. Selfleth jumped to the side, scrambling for her sword were it lay forgotten in the dirt. Her right arm was burning and she took up the sword in her left hand, holding it unsteadily out in front of her as she settled into a defensive stance. When the Easterling charged again, she was ready, moving out of range of his initial strike only to swing her sword at his unprotected shoulder. The blow knocked him clean of his horse, but the reprieve was short for soon he was back on his feet, eyes burning into hers from through the slits of his helmet.

She felt blood trailing down her forehead and into her eye, but did not dare take her attention off her opponent for just one moment. Likewise, the Easterling kept his gaze on her, despite the blood that was oozing from the cut on his shoulder.

She licked her lips, tightening her grip on her sword as she prepared for another round. It was her opponent who struck first, moving in and swinging his sword in the general direction of her head. She was only just in time to counter it, the blade inches away from her face, but felt the strain on her untrained hand. He seemed to notice it too, for he increased the pressure.

Seconds away from giving way, she moved to the side, the blade sliding off next to her face. Her sword ended up with the tip resting on the ground, a deep cut on her cheek where the Easterling's blade had slid past. Sefleth breathed heavily, noticing from the corner of her eye that her opponent was already preparing for the next attack. With a grunt, she clasped her right hand above her left, the pain from her shoulder radiating through her upper body, making it feel like it was on fire. Then, just as he moved in to strike her exposed side, she pushed her sword off the ground, using all of the remaining strength in both arms as she swung it at the Easterling's neck – and ending up taking his head clean off.

Depleted, Sefleth sank to her knees, the sword that was pushed into the ground the only thing keeping her up. She looked around her, through a haze of blood and sweat and all-consuming tiredness, to find that the battle had somehow come to a near-end. A green mist of what appeared like corpse-like Men to her tired mind – but surely couldn't be – sweeping over the landscape, taking down Easterlings, Orcs, and even the giant animals. It was over. It was finally over.

Hên nin ~ My child


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: Hello all! To all of you who celebrate it, I wish a merry Easter!**

 **On this chapter, I just want to say (quite like with the previous chapters): I'm sorry. Curious to hear what you think about it, though. So don't forget to read & review! Enjoy :)**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-two: Of the grieved and grieving**

She wasn't sure how long she had sat there, leaning on her sword as the cries of the dying faded and instead were replaced by the cries of those who were left behind, until she registered a soft touch to her good shoulder, and the name of her brother.

She looked up through her good eye wearily, recognising the Man who stood beside her as one of the King's, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Once assured that she could walk on her own, he moved on, probably to look for more survivors. But by now the field had mostly emptied, those still alive already having made their way towards Minas Tirith. Bruihel. She was looking for her, Sefleth knew it. Perhaps the Elleth had already returned to the city, thinking that she would find her there.

She swiped the hand of her good arm across her face, wiping away some of the dirt and blood that had settled there, but found that it did little to clear her vision. With a weary sigh, she pushed her sword back into its sheath, before starting the long trek towards the White City. She tried to keep her gaze fixed on the gate, not wishing to look down at the bloodied and broken bodies of her kin, but found she had little choice after nearly stumbling over one of them. And that's how she spotted the golden horse, the intricate braids in its mane sparking instant recognition. How many times had she fed it, brushed it, cared for it? How many times had she seen Bruihel mount it? Her throat constricted as she gazed down on the dead animal, before forcing her gaze away. Swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat, she forced her legs onwards, ever onwards, stumbling as the stench of death hit her nostrils and made her head swim.

Through her hazy vision, a flash of green registered in the corner of her good eye. Sefleth knew what it was even before moving closer. She bit down on her quivering lip. She's not dead, she reprimanded herself weakly, even as she crashed down on her knees beside the Elleth who had been like a second mother to her. Reaching out a quivering hand, she took hold of Bruihel's, giving it a soft squeeze.

'I'm here,' she choked, 'I found you.' When she did not respond, Sefleth, brought the hand closer to her chest, cradling it against her as she closed her eyes. Bruihel had always been there for her, taken care of her like she was her own. 'And now you're gone,' she sobbed, rocking back and forth as she squeezed her eyes shut. 'I didn't even get to say goodbye.' She took a deep breath, before forcing herself to look on the Elleth once more. ' _Losto vae_ ,' she whispered, remembering the words Bruihel had once spoken when her father had died. 'May the land be green and the winds kind… Wherever you go.'

She reached over, grabbing the empty hand that had now fallen without a weapon, and carefully laid her own weapon by the Elleth's side. She closed her unseeing eyes and slid Bruihel's sword into her empty sheath, promising herself she would avenge her. Then Sefleth straightened up and, after realising there was nothing more she could do for Bruihel, recommenced her way towards Minas Tirith.

 _'Find Ardhoniel,'_ the Elleth had said, that evening under the shadow of Dunharrow. Glancing up, she had given the young Woman a stern look. _'No, don't fight me about this, hên nin. If something happens to me, promise me you will find Ardhoniel. She will help you.'_ And she had promised.

* * *

In hindsight, if ever she was asked about those horrific days that she was locked in the dungeons, she would say she remembered little of the experience. Flashes of light in an otherwise dark room, the sound of heavy machinery and crude language of the Orcs in the background, her mind blissfully numb as she drifted in and out of conscientiousness.

The reality was much different. She remembered every minute in her dank and dark cell vividly. Remembered each burn, each cut, each bone snap. She remembered her own wailing, the raw sound bouncing of the cold walls of the dungeon until she could scream no more, at which she had resorted to sobbing until she was too tired to do even that.

But most of all, she remembered that voice, that terrible voice that invaded her mind and fed her lies. She remembered the palantír, remembered near begging the dark depths of the stone to reveal to her the location of the Ring and its bearer, if only so that the unbearable torture of both her body and mind would end. But the palantír did not offer her the requested information. And the torture continued.

* * *

They had convened in the Tower Hall, to discuss the battle as well as to consider what would happen next. Barely an hour had passed since the battle had been won, and Boromir could feel the strain of it all weighing down on him. He could not remember how much time had passed since he'd last slept. How much time since he had last eaten. Judging from the looks on the faces of the others, he could only imagine they felt the same.

As it turned out, "they" were not the ones he had expected to see – if he had envisioned a life beyond the battle at all. There was the Wizard, of course, and Pippin, the latter who stood pale and quiet off the side. Then there were Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, all of whose presence he had not entirely expected, yet could also not say of that it came unexpected. But instead of Théoden, there was Éomer, a heavy frown marring his face as he'd relayed the demise of his uncle and the near-death of his younger sister. And then there was him, alone, now all of a sudden the representative of Gondor. If what the Wizard had said was true, it was probably for the best that they had locked his father back into his room, half-crazed my desperation and grief as he was. Now was not the time for such things – and that is why he forced himself not to think of the absence of a certain Elleth, who he had hoped to find after the battle was over.

'We can draw out Sauron's armies, empty his lands – allow Frodo safe passage across the Plains of Gorgoroth,' Aragorn explained.

Aragorn's plan, reckless though it was, was taking shape in Boromir's mind. Éomer was right in that there was no victory to be achieved through strength of arms or numbers; the Men of Rohan and Gondor were tired, wounded – dead. Then again, he had always enjoyed a risky battle strategy. Might as well try one now that the whole world depended on it. 'I think it might just work.'

'Sauron will suspect a trap,' Gandalf warned, 'He will not take the bait.'

The double doors were thrown open, and Boromir was about to inform another guard of the fact that they were in a private meeting when he realised that this was not one of his Men. Indeed, the figure that had entered, their frame highlighted against the daylight that streamed into the room, was dressed in heavy armour, a cloak of rich green billowing behind them as they marched into the room. Upon approaching, the newcomer removed their helmet, what it uncovered causing Éomer to halt in whatever he had been about to say.

It was a Woman. And yet, Boromir could only safely say so after another moment of careful study. Her armour, as well as any visible part of skin, was covered in dirt, blood, and sweat, the natural tone of her skin not distinguishable underneath the thick layer of grime. A deep cut near her temple was dripping blood all over the right side of her face and into the eye, and another superficial cut marred her left cheek. As she bowed to Éomer, Boromir noted her right arm was hanging limply by her side.

'My Lord Éomer,' she addressed him, then nodded to the others present.

'You are not Lord Éaden,' he concluded, surprise and realization showing on his face in equal parts as he, too, took in her haggard appearance. There was no question that she, whoever she was, had partaken in the previous battle.

'My name is Sefleth, daughter of Sefa,' she bowed her head, 'Éaden is my brother.'

Éomer nodded, then frowned, 'Whatever you have come in for, Sefleth, daughter of Sefa, I will have to ask you to come back for at a later time. We are currently…-'

'I've come for Lady Ardhoniel,' she interjected, more determinedly than Boromir had expected her capable of based on her present appearance, 'I was told this was where I may find her.'

'The Lady Ardhoniel was taken,' he found himself saying, a bitter sound to his words that he could not help. 'By one of the Nazgûl.'

The newcomer's eyes – or at least the one that was not covered by a thick crust of blood – widened, 'A Nazgûl? But… whatever for? What could they want with her?'

'Not them. Sauron,' Gandalf spoke grimly, a deep frown set on his face. It was the first he had spoken on the topic, and all were eager – if not simply curious – to hear about it. 'The enemy knows the Ring is close, can almost sense it, and he is getting desperate.'

'How did he come by this knowledge?' Éomer inquired.

'Long has Lord Denethor used the Palantir of Minas Anor to learn of the movements of the enemy. But he came into contact with him; not breaking to his will but still vulnerable. Open to manipulation…' As this fact sank in, the Wizard took a deep breath. 'I believe this is also why the Lady Ardhoniel was taken.'

'Because you told my father she had the gift of foresight,' Boromir accused, at the same time as the fact clicked in his mind.

'Yes. And I deeply regr…-'

'This is your fault,' he interrupted, white hot anger now spreading through his veins. 'You and your meddling Wizard ways have led to her demise!'

'Boromir,' Aragorn warned, but he hardly had the mind to listen.

'She may not be dead,' Gandalf disputed in his turn, 'She may yet live.'

'Then where would she be?' Pippin piped up.

A short silence followed, even Boromir reining in his emotions to hear what the answer to this pivotal question would be. If there was a location, it meant they could save her.

'Given her importance to him, Sauron is likely to keep her nearby,' Aragorn mused, 'The dungeons of Barad-dûr, most likely.'

'Then we can retrieve her after we finish with Sauron's armies.'

Gandalf gave him an exasperated look, before restating that the Enemy would likely not fall for the trap they wanted to set. Only listening with half an ear to the counter argument that he did not want to hear, Boromir saw the Woman, Sefleth, sway on her feet from the corner of his eyes.

Taking this excuse to leave the confines of the Tower Hall – and one certain Wizard – he stepped up to her. 'I am off to check up on my brother in the Houses of Healing; will you not accompany me, Lady Sefleth.' She nodded, gratefully accepting the arm that he held out to her with her good one, and leaning heavily upon it. He noticed that under the layer of grime, her face had gotten quite pale.

As they started to make for the door, he called over his shoulder, 'You know my thoughts on the matter, Aragorn. Just call me when you want to depart.'

* * *

'So how do you know the Lady Ardhoniel?' He asked the Woman as they passed over the Fountain Court, partly out of interest but mostly just to keep sure she was staying conscious.

'I do not. Or at least not really,' she amended, 'I have seen her maybe two or three times, but I do not know her very well.'

'And yet you are looking for her?'

'She is a friend of my…' She fell silent, realising at the same time that she did not know what to call Bruihel. And that Bruihel was no longer alive. 'She was a friend of a family member.'

The Gondorian only nodded in response, but did not ask more. On his part, Boromir's mind had wandered off to his brother, who was waiting for him in the Houses of Healing. Pippin had told him that after the… _incident_ in the Hallows, Faramir had at least regained consciousness. While obviously far from healed, it seemed to him a good sign, at least, and it went someway in quenching the worry that he felt. More than worried, however, there had been a guilt weighing down on him ever since Faramir had returned from Osgiliath half-dead. It should have been him, a voice at the back of his mind nagged in the early hours of the morning. It should have been him leading the Men to reclaim Osgiliath. It should have been him who giving their life for Gondor.

On her part, Sefleth was grateful for the reprieve, as her head was swimming and she was nowhere near ready to speak of Bruihel.

They made the remainder of the way in silence, the road half-familiar to Sefleth who had first been directed to look for Ardhoniel in the Houses of Healing. The Head Healer had nearly wanted to keep her there, too, but she quickly left after receiving the information she needed. She supposed there was no avoiding the Man's concerned eyes and gentle hands now – nor did she particularly want to, for with every step she felt her energy drain. It would be nice to sit and rest for a bit, indeed.

Losto vae ~ Sleep well  
Hên nin ~ My child


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: Welcome back to chapter 23! While we are approaching the end of this story, don't be fooled by the title of this chapter; this chapter is _not_ the final one. However, I do wish to use this moment to thank everyone who has followed me on this journey! You have been amazing!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-three: The end of all things**

Evening had already fallen when the messenger arrived through the heavy doors of the Houses of Healing and passed through the general ward to a smaller, more private area behind. When Boromir came out at last, the sky outside of the window had gone dark, and Sefleth would have already been fast asleep had she not been waiting for this exact moment. Several seconds passed as she listened to the fall of his heavy boots on the stone tile, their sound clearly audible in the otherwise silent ward even though he tried to mask it. Many of the Men had already left, the others fast asleep, resting their weary and injured limbs and exhausted minds.

Instead of following their example, Sefleth waited patiently until the Gondorian had reached the door before she shot up from her cot, grabbing the Elven sword that lay beside it, and flew after him.

'Are we leaving for the Black Gate?'When he turned, surprise was clearly written on his face, along with something else. Annoyance perhaps. Or admiration. She couldn't quite tell in the dim light of the moon. However, the tone of his voice when he replied would tell her that it was probably more of the former. 'All able-bodied Men of Gondor and Rohan will. And not 'till daybreak.'

She nodded, hardly registering how he had emphasized the words "able-bodied" and "Men". Seeing that his words had not had the wanted effect, Boromir sighed, 'I am not your King, Lady Sefleth, and it is not up to me to decide whether you can or cannot come. But I think I know what your King would say, were you to ask him.'

'So then I won't ask him.'

'You are wounded.'

'So are you,' she replied, 'So is everyone. If we are to leave every Man with injuries behind, the King will find himself quite alone at the Gates of Mordor. If he would even be there himself.'

'There is a difference between scraps and bruises and a broken arm, my Lady. You cannot expect to be of any use if you cannot even hold your sword.'

'It was merely dislocated,' Sefleth countered airily, moving around her still sore arm in circles as if to prove her point. Seeing that it did little to change his stern complexion, she sighed, allowing the limb to fall to her side. 'I have as much reason as any of you to go – if not more. Many of these Men are fathers, husbands, sons. I have neither child, spouse, or parent. Please, I wish to come – I _need_ to come.' Seeing his dissolve break, she continued, now softer, 'Are you not there, too, for someone you love?'

Silence followed her words, and Sefleth feared that she may have crossed a line. Or perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps she had read the signals incorrectly. Perhaps he was not in love with the Elleth she had promised to seek out.

'Be down at the gates at daybreak,' he said at last, words so carefully neutral that she feared she may have misheard them. 'If you wish to march to Mordor, you best stay out of sight of your King.' He nodded in her direction and made to leave. 'I will not stand in for you or your safety, Lady Sefleth,' he halted, giving her another one of his guarded looks. 'If you come, it is of your own volition – and at your own risk.'

* * *

As Boromir had suggested, Sefleth stayed near the back of the long line of Men, far out of sight of Lord Éomer's keen eyes and anyone else's who may recognise her. On any other day, she may have had more difficulty blending in, with her shining armour and rich green cape, but not today. Today the Men were tired, weary – frightened. No one cared to know about her backstory today.

They stopped near a crossroads that evening, and had a quiet meal of bread and some dried meat. After that, the Men quickly started to settle down for the night and Sefleth, knowing there were many long days of walking ahead of her, quickly followed their example. As she stared up at the starless night, her thoughts turned to her home, and she wondered what her family would be doing. No matter what would happen once they'd reach the Gates of Mordor, she doubted her life would ever be the same. When one of the Men on watch took out a flute and started to play a soft lullaby, she was grateful for the clouds that blocked out the light of the moon, as they also hid her tears from view.

* * *

When the Morannon came into view, it was near noon on the sixth day – and in some other parts of the world the sunlight would have been reflecting off the metal of their armour and weapons. As they came to a halt in front of the Black Gate, however, the sweltering heat had little to do with the sun, the sand beneath their boots unnaturally dry. Out here, the skies were always red with the filth and industries of Mordor.

It took a little longer for the last of the Men to come to a halt. And then the restlessness set in. Six days had been a long journey for most of them, and yet at the same time none of them really had wanted the journey to come to an end, for what lay at their destination was far more daunting than any number of days marching could ever be. Doubts were playing up, and Boromir wouldn't blame the one or two stragglers who decided to sneak away before the battle would start. As for him, Boromir knew this was exactly where he should be.

His visit to Faramir on the eve of battle had not just been social in nature. While glad to find his brother was healing, Boromir had also used the opportunity to fill him in on what was going to transpire next – and the very real possibility that they may not return. With his father's current state, that left Faramir to take up Stewardship. If such would be the case, he could only hope it would be for long rather than short duration.

He returned to the present when Aragorn flicked the reins of his horse, and he followed closely behind him with Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli. Once more, he had borrowed Nimloth, the animal by now more than accustomed to carrying him. He had not wanted to think about his decision to take Nimloth instead of another horse too much, but was forced to admit that it was, to no small degree, influenced by the mount's original rider.

'Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth,' Aragorn declared to the silent gates. If the situation was not so dire, Boromir may have found it comical to see the Ranger – the _King_ – pass such stern speech to no one in particular. As it was, however, the silence behind the Black Gate was almost eerie, as if all of Mordor was waiting with baited breath to catch them off guard. 'After his defeat at Minas Tirith, let now justice be dealt upon him!'

Several beats of silence followed, until at last with a great groaning, the gate started to open. Behind him, Boromir heard uneasy whispering, the shuffling of thousands of restless feet. Perhaps the Men were right; there was nothing stopping Sauron from shooting them were they stood – and only a fool's hope that he would accept the challenge Aragorn had issued.

Through the ever widening crack, he could catch a glimpse of Mordor's armies, and realised just how terribly outnumbered they were. Ten to one, easily. Orcs, Trolls, other nameless beasts the likes of which featured in his worst nightmares. Yet only one came forward; a tall figure, perched on a skeletal horse. He was dressed in black robes, a heavy black helmet hiding all of his face but his disfigured and diseased mouth. And yet all of that was not as remarkable as the fact that, despite the obvious influence of Sauron, this minion appeared to be of Men.

'Is there any in this rout who has the authority to speak with me?' He gazed upon Aragorn, 'It takes more to become a King than a piece of Elvish glass and a rabble such as this, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.' He turned then to Gandalf, the corners of his mutilated mouth pulling up in what may have passed for a grin on a kinder face. 'Old greybeard. Much have we heard of you and your wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance. But now you have stuck out your nose too far, old man, and you shall see what comes to those who set foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great.' Here he reached into the dark folds of his cloak, and took out three items – each familiar, and each like a punch to Boromir's gut. 'I was bidden to show these tokens to you, old greybeard. A Dwarf-coat, Elf-cloak, and a blade of the long-fallen West. Worn by a spy from the rat-land of the Shire. I see the creature I describe is familiar to you – even dear to you.

'But Lord Sauron does not love spies, and one such will be dealt with justly; he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts can contrive, and never will be released, until perhaps that day on which he is so changed and broken that you would not recognise him if he stood in front of you. This shall surely be – unless you accept my Lord's terms.'

'Name your terms,' Gandalf spoke steadily, though his face bore signs of great distress. As the messenger – or the Mouth of Sauron, as he had called himself – started to list Sauron's terms, it soon became clear that what the Enemy proposed was far less like a trade, and more like a complete subjectification of the Free People of Middle Earth.  
But what choice did they have? Boromir knew he was not the only one to recognise the three items in the Mouth's hand, not the only to know they belonged to the Hobbit that they had send with the Ring into Mordor. If there was any chance that he was still alive, did they not owe it to him to try and save him from such a terrible fate?

And yet, could one life – no matter whose it was – ever weigh up against that of the entirety of Middle-Earth? And perhaps more importantly, would Sauron, if he had indeed found the Ring, not have had no need of such a bargain?

As he realised this, he saw that Gandalf, too, had seemingly regained some of his calm – perhaps having come to the same conclusion. 'This is much to demand for the delivery of one servant,' he observed, 'Have the fields of Gondor destroyed Sauron's hope in war, so that he now falls to haggling?'

But it appeared the Man was not out of tricks just yet, for another distorted smile appeared on his face. 'And what of the She-Elf? Is she worth this price?' When the Wizard remained silent, he taunted, 'Don't take too long, greybeard. She may not be able to leave anymore. Or be willing to.'

'You lie,' Boromir accused, only just keeping himself from riding up to the Man and pulling him from his horse. Or doing much worse.

'You care for her, Steward-son,' the Mouth returned, smirking, and at this point Boromir was hardly surprised that he had been able to identify him so easily. Then the messenger reached into his cloak once more, and pulled out what appeared to be a lump of golden thread. When he extended his arm so that they may better see, Boromir realized it was not thread. It was hair.

'If these prisoners are prized as high as you say, what surety do we have that Sauron, Master of Treachery, will keep his part?' Gandalf interjected, although his voice now sounded less confident than before. 'Let the prisoners be brought forth and yielded to us. _Then_ we may consider these demands.'

Silence followed, before the Mouth barked a humourless laugh. 'If you wish for surety, you must first do my Lord Sauron's bidding. These are his terms; take them or leave them.'

'These we will take,' called Gandalf, casting aside his grey robe to allow a white light to shine forth that caused the foul messenger to recoil, and he took the tokens from his hand. 'As for your terms, we reject them utterly. We did not come here to waste words treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, and even less to with one of his slaves. Begone!'

Now the Mouth of Sauron laughed no more, and instead gazed at the Wizard with a mixture of amazement and anger. Then at last he turned his horse, a sound more beastlike that human leaving his mouth, before he directed his horse back to the Black Gate. Even before he had galloped through the opening, however, a horn sounded from somewhere on top of the right Tower of Teeth. And as Men from Harad and Rhûn and the East, and Orcs and trolls, and Nazgûl descended on them, Boromir realised his initial estimate had been far, _far_ off.

* * *

An image appeared in front of her mind's eye – though from fatigue, or actually shown by the seeing stone, she could not tell, nor did she want to. Trees appeared all around her, their limbs reaching high in the sky and intertwining to create a natural ceiling that cast a golden glow on the forest floor. The woodland stretched out in every direction, undisturbed but for a massive carved stone head rested on the forest floor to her right, the remainder of its body missing. She hardly had time to register the startling fact that she knew this place, when a figure appeared out of the treeline.

He was small, not even reaching her breast if she were to guess, with curly brown hair and large, hairy feet. He wandered in the direction of the stone carving, though his mind seemed elsewhere.

'This is not the time nor place for any of us to wander off – least of all you,' a voice remarked, not unkindly, and Ardhoniel's heart gave a lurch as she realised she knew that voice. He appeared now too, a small pile of twigs and sticks in his arms. She knew him. And yet, when he gazed in the direction of the Hobbit, Ardhoniel realised that there was something utterly unfamiliar about him. 'I know why you seek solitude. I know that you suffer, Frodo; I see it every day. But are you sure that you not suffer needlessly?'

As the Gondorian approached, she noticed Frodo take several steps back, ever keeping the Man at a safe distance as he eyed him alertly – and distrustfully.

'There are other ways,' Boromir continued, 'Why should we destroy the one hope we have in fighting this darkness? Why should we not bring it to safety, to be hidden and guarded, only to be used at the utmost urgency?'

'I know what you are saying, and it may have sounded like wisdom were it not for the warning in my heart.'

'Warning?' Boromir stepped closer again, 'I ask only for the strength to defend my people!' When Frodo took another step back, he threw down the gathered wood, 'Why do you recoil? I am no thief!'

'Yet you are also not yourself!'

A glint had appeared in the Gondorian's eyes, borne from desperation, anger, and the influence of the item that she by now realised the Hobbit carried. 'What chance do you think we stand? Sooner or later, they will find us. They will take the Ring – and the world will fall! Is that the fate that you wish for us? To be tortured in Sauron's dungeons whilst our lands are subjected to slavery and death!'

Boromir took another step forward, and the Hobbit stumbled back, before turning and breaking out into a run. 'It is not yours save by unhappy chance,' the Man called, as he gave chase. 'It should have gone to Gondor! It should have saved my people!'

He caught up to the Hobbit, tackling him to the forest floor as the two fought over the Ring that hung at Frodo's neck. And suddenly, Frodo was gone. Boromir struggled for a moment longer, seemingly with an absent foe, before he jumped up and gazed around wildly. 'You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us, and bring death and ruin on all of us. Curse you! Curse you and all the Halflings!'

He slipped, whether by accident or by the invisible Hobbit, and when he lifted his head, there was nothing but shame and fear written on it. His eyes had regained their usual clarity as he searched for the Hobbit between the trees. 'Frodo? Frodo! What have I done? Please, Frodo, I'm sorry!'

The vision faded even as the Man's cries still echoed through the forest, and rang in her ears. The room she came back to was dark, save for a single torch that burned on the opposite wall, and cold. She crumpled to the floor, wishing for unconsciousness to take her as reality crashed into her. Boromir had tried to take the Ring.

'As do all Men, sooner or later,' a voice, chilling at the same time as it was persuasive, and she didn't have the energy to fight it anymore. 'For above all else they want power.'  
For the first in many days, Ardhoniel found tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She was too tired to wipe at them, too tired to hide the weakness. Instead, she allowed her head to rest on the cold stone floor as her mind returned to the Man whom she had come to trust, had even come to care about – that treacherous voice in her mind both curse and comfort as it told her how wrong she had been.'Return to the Hobbit,' it bid her at last, more gentle than she was used to. Clinging to it as a lifeline, as a starved dog would to a piece of meat, she pushed herself back up and gazed into the palantír. 'Who is he? _Where_ is he?'

The dark depths of the stone started to shift, to clear, just as she felt, more than really knew, that her captor's attention had shifted. With it, some lucidity returned to her mind, and she snapped her head away from the direction of the seeing stone. However, the image could not be unseen. And she knew that for good or bad, the end was near.

* * *

The battlefield had gone unusually silent, all standing still as they gazed at the utter destruction that was wrecked in front of their very eyes. As the earth had shifted beneath their feet, they had watched as dark ash clouds filled the skies, and Gandalf had called that Sauron was defeated. Most of their foes had fled at that point, some begging for mercy, a small group of Men from the East and South making a final stand against the host from the West. When that, too, had been defeated, they stood, as they were now. Unable to believe it was finally over.

At last some of the Men broke out into cheer, and the sentiment was soon shared among most of the Men of Rohan and Gondor. But Boromir did not share in their cheers, for as they watched the Dark Tower of Sauron collapse, and saw Mount Doom erupt, he could think only of those that were still in those places.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Welcome back! A few notes on this chapter: Unfortunately, it is rather shorter than you are used of me. However, I wanted to end the chapter where it has; I promise the next chapter will be longer (and far more interesting). In addition, it is also rather fragmented, containing snapshots of what could have been a rather long, rather uneventful journey. Finally, it's mostly from the p.o.v. from our favourite Gondorian - not sorry about that. Hope my writing does him justice!**

 **I also want to give a heads-up that there will be no chapter next week. I will be away for a conference this weekend up until Wednesday, so I won't have much time to write. Since we are reaching a crucial point in the story, I don't want to rush things just so I can meet my one-chapter-a-week posting rate. You may expect chapter 25 in a fortnight!**

 **Now, on with the story!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-four: Salvation**

Theirs was a bleak outpost in the dark night. The air was stifling, the reek of decay a constant reminder of how the place had gotten its name, as they camped on the outskirts of the Dead Marshes. To be truthful, it was little better than remaining in front of the Morannon in terms of cheerfulness. However, none had wished to linger there, surrounded by those that they had lived and fought beside for many years, and with little strength remaining in their bodies this was as far as their tired feet had dragged them. No fires were started that night, no song, many of the Men asleep as soon as their head hit something solid – hardly believing that the war was truly, finally over.

Boromir stared out across the marshes, small lights flickering in the heavy mist that lay over the area. He could find no sleep, even though exhaustion was also turning his eyes heavy and his feet numb. Just before the battle, he had set Nimloth free, thinking that it was only fair that she'd return to her home when, in all likeliness, he would not. It had seemed reasonable at the time, but now he almost wished he hadn't, for he already dreaded the moment he had to be on his feet once more. Even so, the physical exhaustion was a welcome distraction at this point for the Gondorian.

'I'm sorry,' a voice called from behind him, seeming too loud in the still night. He did not need to turn to know who it belonged to, knowing already that there was only one in their company with such a light voice – and the confidence to approach him. 'I wish we could have…' She trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. She was a stranger to the ways of the world, unfamiliar with the horrors that lay behind the gates of Mordor. And yet he found he could not begrudge her this. She had tried to help. He wished he could have done the same.

They'd had yet to make it back out of the Haunted Pass when some of the Men had started calling excitedly, and he had turned – not really knowing what to expect, but certainly not expecting the sight that met his eyes. Truthfully, after the Eagles had chased the Nazgûl back into Mordor, he had not given the creatures any more thought. But there they were, passing over the Mountains of Shadow some ways to the south of them, seemingly slower than Boromir remembered.

'The Eagles are carrying something,' Legolas had called, and he had felt his chest swell with hope against his better judgment. 'They are Frodo and Sam!'

'Are they alive? And what about the Lady Ardhoniel, is she also there?' Boromir found himself asking, but he knew his answer even before Legolas opened his mouth. A shadow passed over the Elf's fair face, and a deep frown set on his brow.

'I cannot say… They are motionless, but that is all I can tell from this distance. As for Ardhoniel: she is not.'

'Where will they take them? Will they bring them to Minas Tirith?'

'I doubt they will, Master Dwarf. Although, if I know Gwaihir half as well as I think, I don't doubt we shall see our friends before long.'

It had been a meagre comfort for them at best, but it was all they had had. And so they'd marched on, one tired foot in front of the other, as Boromir had tried to ignore the painful ache in his chest.

'You should get some rest,' he said at last, realising Sefleth had yet to move. 'We have a long day of marching ahead of us. And then some more.'

She nodded, hesitating for another moment, before leaving him to his thoughts once more. He sat like that for a long time, staring out into the mist that swirled on the marshes, deeply emerged in his own thoughts. At one point, Boromir thought to see the shape of a black, riderless horse trotting through the mist, but was quick to attribute it to his tired mind and the grim environment. He would not rue leaving this place in the morrow at all.

* * *

The days that followed were a blur, possibly even more so than her time of imprisonment. She felt like she was emerged in deep water, drifting in and out of consciousness, but having nothing to hold on to, nothing to drag herself to the surface. The waves would ever sweep her under, leaving her unsure what even was up or down. The moments of wakefulness were hardly any better, and she remembered little from them except for the sharp pain and flashes of light that pierced the lids of her weary eyes. In the few moments that she was lucid enough to think, Ardhoniel found herself begging for salvation. For death. For a release that never came.

* * *

The next few days were an endless succession of dragging feet and sagging shoulders, improving only once they had left Nindalf behind them and Minas Tirith appeared at last on the horizon. Even with the White City now in sight, their road was a long one, and they wouldn't reach his home before another two day's march. Even so, the end of their journey had come into view at last, and it made the steps just a tad less effortful. That evening, they prepared to make camp near the river island of Cair Andros, where they were in for a surprise.

The field of Cormalthen ***** was one of the fairer sights this close to Mordor, with its lush grass and the yellow flower-bearing trees that lined its edges, and the place was an old acquaintance to all who had served Gondor in war. For Boromir, his battles had oft taken him this way, and the field practically lay on the doorstep of Gondor's secret outpost of Henneth Annûn. However, in all the times he had passed the field of Cormalthen, never had he seen there such strange visitors.

Two of the Great Eagles were perched near the centre of the field, seemingly not surprised nor concerned by the approach of their army. Underneath their enormous wings, in the tall grass Boromir spotted two mops of curly hair.

He watched Gandalf ride up to Eagles, seemingly conversing with them for a moment before the two animals took up into the sky. The Wizard then turned back to them, calling for Aragorn who, after giving the order to set up camp, moved forward. Although not directly addressed, Boromir noticed Gimli and Legolas followed, concern clearly visible on each of their faces. In his stead, Boromir found he was rooted to his spot. While sharing the others' concern, there was another, larger part of him that felt too ashamed to approach the Ringbearer and his companion.

The last time he had seen Frodo, he had tried to take the Ring from him. He had cursed him, even attacked him. After that, how could he ever face him again? And so instead of following, he joined the others in making camp, and when it was decided that they would remain in the fields of Cormalthen until the two Hobbits were well enough to make the journey to Minas Tirith, he offered himself as a messenger. Soon, he was given a horse, and he was on his way to the White City, trying to ignore the guilt and shame that increased with every step away from the field.

* * *

He arrived in Minas Tirith at dusk on the next day, eyes bloodshot and near dead on his feet with exhaustion. Charging through the broken gate, he nudged the horse in a final gallop as he scaled the levels of his city. When he reached the Fountain Court, he called for one of the guards to take his horse, whilst ordering another to gather the city elders for a briefing. When all was sufficiently taken care of – and before the tiredness could take hold of him – he turned and marched in the direction of the Houses of Healing.  
There were more empty cots in the Houses than he remembered before his departure. A large portion of the Men had likely come with them to the Morannon, the others perhaps already released to go back to their homes and families. He did not stop to check for familiar faces, but continued on to the private ward that lay behind. However, before he made it to the double doors that separated the two areas, a familiar voice called his name.

'Faramir,' he turned, a smile appearing on his face as he reached forward to embrace his younger brother.

'You look terrible,' Faramir grinned, 'Even so, I'm glad to see you. Does this mean your mission went well?'

Boromir nodded, 'The others will likely arrive in several days; I went ahead to break the news.' Taking into his brother's state, he found he looked much better than he did when last he saw him. He was on his feet, his skin had lost its pallor, and apart from the arm that was in a sling, he appeared quite well. He told him this.

'I have been much better,' he agreed.

'That's good to hear. But I fear that with you well, I have no further reason to delay my appointment in the Tower Hall. I have called the elders for a meeting, and I have yet to inform father. Tell me, how is he these days?'

'He perished,' Faramir said at last, after a long moment of silence. His face was unreadable, yet knowing him well, Boromir heard the hint of distress in his calm voice. 'I was told that after… after the Hallows, he was detained in his room. Several days ago, the guards found him with the palantír in his hand and a letter opener through his heart.'

Not knowing what to say, Boromir could only nod as his head swirled with this news. Throughout his youth and most of his adulthood, his father had been his role model, his idol, one of the most important figures in his life second only to Faramir. Whilst their relation had been more strained as of late, it had still been his hope that they would be able to solve their issues once the war was over.

'That is not all…' Faramir continued hesitantly, carefully gauging his brother's expression. There was no easy way to break this news, and no worse moment than the present, but Boromir needed to know. 'You were not the first to return from Mordor. Your Elven friend arrived here yesterday morning, borne unconscious on the back of a soot-covered horse. She's alive but…there is nothing our Healers can do for her anymore. I'm sorry.'

* * *

 *** Author's Note:** The Sindarin name of this field is Cormallen, but it is suggested that the Gondorians likely used a bastardized version of this name: Cormalthen.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back! It's only been two weeks but it feels like ages! I hope you will all enjoy this chapter; just a heads-up that it contains a lot of perspectives. Hope you guys don't mind! Now, enjoy, and don't forget to tell me your thoughts!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-five: Healing**

In the end, his briefing with the city elders had turned into an in-depth discussion that had lasted until well past midnight. They discussed the ending of the war, his father's death and, at long length, the return of the King. It was a tiring experience, even if he would have been going on a good night's sleep and a full stomach, having to defend the Man who many of them had never seen before but held claim to Gondor's long-abandoned throne – and truly was not one Boromir wanted to have at that moment. And so it was decided that with the news of the war shared and the funeral of his father planned, all other, less pressing matters could wait until morning.

He did not linger in the Tower Hall afterwards, finding the chamber gave him an eerie feeling without his father's presence seated on the high-backed chair near the end. Giving the empty chair one last look, Boromir turned on his heel and marched out, though his feet did not carry him to his private rooms as he had expected.

Instead, he soon found himself hovering in the open door of one of the private rooms in the Houses of Healing, not being able to go in, yet not able to turn away either. Truthfully, he could not fault the Healers for giving up on her, only having cleaned her body and changed it into fresh clothing to allow her to die respectfully. Cuts, bruises, and burns littered her exposed skin, and the few parts that had gone untouched looked sallow and sickly. Many of the fingers on both hands stood at odd angles, suggesting they had been broken at least in one place. An attempt to wash and brush her golden hair had been made, and her mane was carefully positioned to cover her mutilated ears. All in all, the sight of her made even the battle-hardened warrior sick to his stomach.

He had thought her dead. Even whilst holding on to hope, a part of him had thought her dead. And it had been easier, for when people die you can no longer hold their faults against them, can no longer blame them for their deeds and misdeeds in life. And so he had forgiven her, if only because there was little sense in holding grudges against the dead. But she wasn't dead – though such a fate would have hardly been worse than her current one. She wasn't dead, and so he found that in addition to the aching of his heart, he found himself cursing her. Cursing her for her meddling. For her secrets. For her lies. For getting caught. For nearly dying.

He was unsure when the tears had started to flow, the mix of anger and grief and exhaustion so powerful that he had neither the energy nor will to stop them. Several hours may have passed like this, or perhaps only minutes, before Boromir at last turned away, and forced his feet into their original direction.

* * *

Lord Elrond of Rivendell arrived in Minas Tirith at noon of the second day. At the time of his arrival, Boromir – and much of anyone else who was of any importance – had been attending the late lord Denethor's funeral, although this hardly mattered to the Elven Lord. Boromir was told that after entering the city, he had made straight for the Houses of Healing, which he had not left ever since.

Many hours had passed since then, and Faramir had at last persuaded his brother to come back to his rooms and wait there in comfort. The lady Éowyn was there, also, though Boromir thought better than to remark on that fact. Instead, he sipped absentmindedly from the wine that his brother had poured him, and bit down on the bread that was put in front of him, whilst his mind strayed back to the passings of that morning.

Many had gathered for the ceremony, dressed in black to mourn their long-time and well-respected Lord. The chill morning air had been filled with the crying of Gondor's people, and he had found himself wishing to be anywhere but there. For many years, Gondor had endured. War, famine, death. They had endured because they'd had to – because it was all they could do. The horrors of battle had blunted, the grief that followed every lost father, son, husband numbed. But now it was all finally over, and it was as if a dam had burst and let through years of suffering, of loss and death. Boromir had not shared in their free-flowing grief, instead finding his grey gaze, so alike his father's, locked on the still body that was carried through the crowd. Just another casualty of the war – if perhaps not in body, then in mind.

'… come back,' Faramir concluded, and Boromir looked up in surprise to find his brother had been talking to him this entire time.

'Hhhm?'

'Never mind,' he frowned, 'When was the last time you got some rest, any way?'

'I lay down after the council last night, but I could not sleep.'

'And before that?'

Boromir rubbed his eyes as he tried to remember the last time he had had a decent night's sleep. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Perhaps it was. 'I… I don't know.'

'Go,' Faramir nodded to the door, 'I will wake you if there are any changes.'

He did not need to mention the Elleth's name for Boromir to know he was referring to her – and he was glad he didn't. He nodded, pushing back from the table and, after a curt bow to the Lady Éowyn, left for his own rooms.

As he did, Boromir missed the way Faramir sighed, missed the way the Lady Éowyn gently touched his hand in response.

'Give him time,' she said softly, directing a sympathetic smile to the young Captain, who found his heart lightening just that little bit at the sight. Perhaps, he found himself thinking, there were still things in this world that were good, and fair, and pure. 'He will turn around.'

Faramir nodded, although a part of him doubted her words. Yet he said nothing to refute them – and he did not remove her hand.

* * *

They were received grandly on their return to Minas Tirith, with silver trumpets and drums and loud cheers of the people. Sefleth watched as the Men broke out of line, rushing over to gather up their loved ones, some even bursting into tears at being reunited with their families. And to be honest, she could not blame those who shed a tear, for none of them had truly expected to return. Herself included.

On her part, the young Woman found that while her feet welcomed the promise of rest and a good, warm bath to soak in, they were among the few parts of her that were happy at the return to civilisation. For the return to the White City meant that soon, when the festivities died down, they would return to Rohan, to her old village… to her old life. And the longer she thought about that prospect, the less she found the idea appealed to her.

* * *

It had been three days. Three days since Lord Elrond had first arrived in Minas Tirith. Three days of near constant care, three days of setting bones and stitching wounds. Three days of relentless prayers to the Valar to save his youngest daughter.

It was late in the afternoon on the third day when he finally left Ardhoniel's room, finding a familiar form already waiting for him. Garbed in white, Mithrandir regarded him with a solemn expression. 'You have done all that could be done for her, old friend.'

Elrond nodded wearily, though the Istar's words did little to alleviate his concerns. Looking out into the quiet hall, he spoke, 'I have done all that I could to mend her broken body, but her spirit is beyond even my healing abilities. There is no telling when she will wake up – and if she does, in what state.'

As he said this, both of their minds strayed back many years ago, when his beloved wife had been brought back from an Orc raid. While grave, the wounds on her body had healed with time, though her mind never had. Neither of them brought up the similarities with the present.

* * *

The soldiers had scarce returned to the city when already the planning for the coronation began. Rooms were cleared and cleaned, clothing mended, and orders for flowers, food, and wine put in. The city was bustling with life, people running to and fro to prepare even as the wounded were still carried to the Houses of Healing. Truly, Boromir could not fault his people for latching onto the hope for a better life. Hope. It was something many of them had never had before. Had never dreamt to have – never dared to.

And yet, while he could not fault them for it, he found he could not share in the festivities either. As he walked through the familiar streets of his home, Boromir felt like an outsider. The realisation hurt him less than he thought it would, less than he knew it would have a year ago. He had left to save his country, had been willing to give it up for himself so that others may keep it – and in a way he had. Now, these were not the streets of his home anymore. These were not the walls of his kingdom. These were not his people.

A sigh escaped his lips quite without thought, and he allowed his gaze to wander around the overgrown garden. He did not know at what time he had suddenly found himself on its doorstep, did not even know how his feet had somehow brought him there, but knew that in a city that was not his anymore, here was a small part that at least still was.

'Your brother said I might find you here,' a familiar voice announced itself, and Boromir turned his head to the door to find Aragorn in its opening. Although in many ways the root of his current state, Boromir found that any grudge he'd held had long left him. Ever since Parth Galen. When he made to stand and bow, the Dúnedan held up his hand.

'Be at peace, my friend. Do you mind if I join you?'

At his answer to the negative, Aragorn made his way into the sanctuary, mindful of the many limbs that blocked the path. When at last he had made it to the centre and the stone bench, a silence befell them.

Once again, Boromir was overcome by the difference in himself. A year ago, he could not fathom being so at ease with the Man who essentially took his country from him. Now, he… well, he simply didn't care. He never wanted to be a ruler anyway, and there would only be so much room for warriors in a time of peace. A tiny voice at the back of his mind, however, told him that his lack of a reaction may also be due to something else.

'This was my mother's garden,' he spoke at last, before his mind could wander off in directions he had fought hard to keep it away from.

Aragorn nodded, 'I remember it being a place of beauty,' and Boromir was once more reminded that he was much older than he looked. 'Once the people have recuperated, I shall see to it that it is restored to its former beauty – if you like.'

The last was added after a moment of silence. Aragorn's sharp eyes carefully observed the Man that sat next to him. He was not the same Man that he had met all those months ago in Rivendell. Calmer, more grounded; he would welcome these changes were it not for the pain that lingered behind his grey eyes. He had noticed how Boromir had avoided Frodo, and how he winced every time they were somehow forced into the same room. What had happened in the woods of Lothlórien still haunted him.

Then of course there was the added burden of Ardhoniel's failing health, which he had found with some surprise to weigh heavily on the Gondorian's mind. Somehow since their meeting in the forests of Lórien, the two had managed to form a deep bond – although of what nature, he could not tell.

Even now, Aragorn was unsure of the reason for the Elleth's presence in the forest on that day. Gandalf had been unwilling to say much about it, as was his habit, divulging only that he thought it a good thing for both the Elleth and Boromir. But that had been before she was taken by Sauron, before her mind and body were subjected to torture, before she somehow managed to survive. From what Elrond had said, it was probably best if she hadn't – and looking at the haunted Man that sat beside him, Aragorn could not help but agree.

Emitting a soft sigh, the Dúnedan pushed himself off of the stone bench. 'I should return; much still remains to be done.' He was nearly at the door when a thought overcame him and he turned, finding the Gondorian once more emerged in thought. There was little he could say by ways of comfort concerning Ardhoniel, but there was something else that he hoped would ease Boromir's mind. 'Frodo has forgiven you, my friend; perhaps you should, too.'

* * *

 **Teaser chapter 26**

 _That night had been another sleepless one for Boromir. He had found himself staring at his ceiling, trying not to think of the upcoming day and what it meant for his own life. Instead, he had found his mind wandering off to Ardhoniel, about the last time he saw her conscious, about her lies, her deceit – their kiss. Unbidden images of a life that would not be flashed through his mind. And though not all unpleasant, they caused him to lie awake all the same._

 _When morning came at last, he quickly dressed, before strapping on his sword. The ceremony would not be before many hours, and it might do him some good to release some of his energy before it. The fact that the training grounds were all but abandoned these days was an added bonus._

 _He passed over the Fountain Court, thoughts filled with stances, exercises, and moves, when he ran head-first into another person. Or well, chest-first, for the person only reached his torso. He felt his stomach drop as he took in the familiar curly hair, nausea rising as his grey eyes met the blue ones of none other than Frodo Baggins of the Shire._


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: Welcome back to chapter 26 and thank you for following this story for so long already. I made a rough outline for the following chapters and the way it looks now, there will be a total of 30 chapters to this story. So we are nearing the end!**

 **About this chapter; I hope you like it. I certainly enjoyed writing the second to last and last bit! :) Enjoy, and don't forget to review!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-six: The crownless**

It was the day of the coronation, and the entire city was bustling with life. Surprisingly, Sefleth found herself looking forward to the event more than she'd expected, despite what it meant for her own life. By the time that the sun had started its ascent, she was bathed, clothed, her hair braided – and with several hours left until the ceremony. With a sigh, she picked up a book and left her rooms.

* * *

That night had been another sleepless one for Boromir. He had found himself staring at his ceiling, trying not to think of the upcoming day and what it meant for his own life. Instead, he had found his mind wandering off to Ardhoniel, about the last time he saw her conscious, about her lies, her deceit – their kiss. Unbidden images of a life that would not be flashed through his mind. And though not all unpleasant, they caused him to lie awake all the same.

When morning came at last, he quickly dressed, before strapping on his sword. The ceremony would not be before many hours, and it might do him some good to release some of his energy before it. The fact that the training grounds were all but abandoned these days was an added bonus.

He passed over the Fountain Court, thoughts filled with stances, exercises, and moves, when he ran head-first into another person. Or well, chest-first, for the person only reached his torso. He felt his stomach drop as he took in the familiar curly hair, nausea rising as his grey eyes met the blue ones of none other than Frodo Baggins of the Shire.

'I-I'm sorry,' he said, quickly stepping back as if burned. 'I was not paying attention where I was going.'

'Boromir…'

'I should get going, good day,' he bowed, ready to make his escape. Then, quite unwillingly, Aragorn's words resounded in his mind, and he found his feet come to a standstill. _Frodo has forgiven you, my friend; perhaps you should, too."_ Whirling back around, he found the Hobbit in quite the same place as he had left him, eyes following his every movement. _"I am no thief." "Yet you are also not yourself!"_ Boromir blinked, forcing the memories back from the forefront of his mind. Instead, he focused on the Hobbit in front of him. Many days had passed since the destruction of the Ring, but the lines of exhaustion and pain had yet to fade from his youthful face – if ever they would. More likely, he would carry the scars of the Ring forever, as did all who were affected by it. _"It's not yours save by unhappy chance."_ 'Frodo, I…'

'It is alright, really.' _"Curse you! Curse you and all the Halflings!"_

He swallowed, finding suddenly his mouth had gone dry and his mind uncomfortably blank. How could he ever start making amends? How could he ever be forgiven? He swallowed once more, then sank down on his knees in front of Frodo, as he had once seen Aragorn do. The Hobbit's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

'I'm sorry,' he uttered at last, finding the words that he wanted to say getting stuck at the back of his throat. How he was ashamed of himself. How he could barely recognise himself. Instead he bowed his head, 'My actions were unforgivable. I shan't ask you for forgiveness, for I do not deserve it.'

A long silence followed his words, and he was afraid that the Hobbit considered him too far beneath him to even reply. Of course, he should have known better. 'You need not ask, Boromir, son of Denethor – it is already given.'

'You… you would forgive me? After what I did to you?'

'The Ring affected us all,' Frodo said kindly, though there was a tiredness to his voice that underlined the truth of those words. 'You only wished to do what was best for your people; there is no dishonour in that.'

When Boromir gazed up, his gaze connected with Frodo's and found there something that allowed him to finally start to forgive himself. They parted soon after, having little to say to one another now that all was said and done, but both felt a little lighter.

* * *

It was near midday when she awoke – though she had no real way to tell the time. The sunlight that fell through the open window warmed her lower body, and for some time she had not wished to open her eyes out of fear of breaking the peace. When she did at last, her eyes took in the unfamiliar chamber. Walls of white stone, tiles of black and white marble, all of it seemed familiar and yet, she could put no name to the place. The same went for the Woman whom she found seated on a chair in one of the corners of the room. Her flaxen hair was braided back, revealing sun-kissed skin and a plain features. A horizontal cut marred her left cheek, and another, deeper cut near her right temple was stitched and decorated with yellowish bruises. They were not the kind of injuries one acquired around the house, and Ardhoniel found herself wondering how she had attained them – and why she was here.

For a time, she simply observed the young female, who was blissfully unaware of her curious gaze as she read her book. She could not help but feel as if she knew her, or had at least seen the Woman before, but her mind would not supply her with a name.

At long last, after what may have been half an hour, the young Woman's gaze shifted up towards the bed, seemingly more out habit than truly expecting to see anything of interest. When her gaze met the Elleth's, her eyes widened, and she nearly dropped her book. 'You're… You're awake!' She cried, scrambling to her feet, and nearly letting the book fall once more. 'I will get a Healer!'

'Water?' Ardhoniel requested, wincing at the rawness of her throat, before the Woman had a chance to rush out the door.

'Of course, yes,' she nodded, moving over towards a pitcher that stood on a small table, and poured some water into a cup. When she moved back to the Elleth, a frown settled upon her brow, 'Can you sit up?'

In the end, it was through their combined efforts that they pulled Ardhoniel into a sitting position. The Woman sat down on her bedside as she put the cup to her lips. With her help, the Elleth drank greedily from the cup, the clear water going some ways in soothing the dryness of her throat, if not its rawness. When the cup was empty, and she felt like she could drink no more, she allowed herself to fall back against the propped up pillow. Exhaustion weighed down her eyelids, but was not enough to still her need for information.

'What day is it?'

'Why, it's coronation day.'

'Coronation?'

'Of the King,' the Woman nodded.

'What King?'

She pursed her lips, before at last a tiny smile overcame her. 'I apologise, I forgot you do not know. Today is May 1st, and today is the coronation day of Lord Aragorn. You do know him, don't you?' At her weak nod, the Woman stood, a frown once more settling on her face. 'I should really get the Healer now; I'm sure he will be happy to know you're awake.'

With that said, she marched out of the room, in search of the elderly Man whom she knew to be in charge of the Houses of Healing – the same one, she recalled, that had wanted to restrain her on one of the beds on her first arrival to Minas Tirith. When she at last returned to the room, Healer in tow, she opened the door to find the Elleth fast asleep once more.

* * *

Over the next few days, the private room in the Houses of Healing was host to many a visitation. Ardhoniel spoke little and only when needed, and generally preferred the moments of solace to those spent in company. The one exception to this rule was the second visit she received, the day after the coronation.

That morning she had woken early to the sunlight streaming into the room, and the warmth it brought helped push away the dark shadows lingering at the forefront of her mind. With time and rest, many of her memories had started to return – although for many of the more recent ones, she rather wished they hadn't. As a result, her dreams had been troubled, snippets of reality merged with images supplied by her subconsciousness into something horrific enough to wake her up multiple times during the night.

A knock on the door roused her from her dark thoughts. She considered closing her eyes again and feigning sleep, for the visit by her father the previous evening had left her with little desire to see anyone. Before she could decide on this course of action, however, the door opened a crack and in peeked a head of curly golden hair. A sweet smile overcame his youthful face at seeing her awake, and Ardhoniel found her own lips, quite on their own accord, mimicking the action. She knew him, her heart told her, although her mind once more failed to supply her with a name.

'I hope I did not wake you?' The Hobbit asked, head still stuck through the crack of the door.

'You did not,' she replied, gesturing for him to come in.

The young Hobbit nodded and when he did, she noticed he was holding two pastries in his small hands. Carefully putting them down on the nightstand next to her bed, he moved to close the door behind him, after which he came to stand somewhat awkwardly by her side. Shifting from one leg to the other, it was obvious that he was trying not to stare at her injuries – and was failing miserably. At last his gaze fell on the two pastries, and he gingerly picked them back up and extended one towards her. 'Blueberry muffins. These are my favourite – at least as far as cakes go. Our cook in the Great Smials bakes them just under the morrow, so that they are still warm at breakfast. They always manage to wake me right up! I don't know what they are feeding you, but I doubted they would bring any of the muffins here.'

'Thank you,' she said at last, accepting the proffered treat before putting it down in her lap. It was true that the Healers had not thought to bring her any cakes or pies, but between her still healing bones and sore throat, she had not really missed them anyway. Still, the thoughtfulness of the action surprised her. She watched as he wolfed down his own muffin with a curious sense of endearment, before he seemed to take note of her gaze – and turned a little red.

'I'm sorry,' he said sheepishly, even as he still licked the last of the crumbs of his fingers. 'I did not have breakfast before coming here.'

She offered him her own muffin, which he took after a moment of contemplation, realising she was not going to eat it anyway. He sat down carefully on the edge of her bed, a concentrated look on his face as he munched on the cake. 'These are not bad at all, although I dare say there is no one who can top the muffins of old Isobella. I cannot wait to taste one of her creations again when I get home.'

A short silence followed, the Hobbit scratching his head as he realised his rambling, while the Elleth considered his words. 'We won, then?'

'You don't know?' His voice raised an octave, eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he stared at her in disbelief.

'I assumed, since I am here, alive, in Minas Tirith, but…'

'Well we did! We…-' he stopped abruptly, averting his gaze and taking to studying his hands with a conflicted expression.

'What is it?'

He sighed, 'Well, I am not supposed to tell, you see. Gandalf made me promise that when I came here I would not discuss anything that may, you know, upset you. Then again, I was also not supposed to bring any muffins, but I reckon that didn't hurt…'

'Gandalf told you?'

His head lowered ever further, and she could see the red creeping up his neck. 'I was not supposed to mention that, either. Well done, Peregrin Took, you and your mouth both.'

 _Ah!_ She thought, the name sparking recognition, even as she found a frown settling on her brow. Before she could voice her thoughts, however, Pippin reached into the pocket of his trousers.

'I only wanted to come by to return something to you, you see. Didn't mean to upset anyone! Please don't tell him I told you!' The promise was on her lips, but died when his fisted hand reached out and placed something cool in the palm of her closest hand.

Upon inspection, she found it was not one, but two things. One was a delicately crafted pendent, hanging from a thin silver chain. The other, coarser though no less beautiful, a mithril bead engraved with runes. Her fingers ached to trace the familiar carvings in the jewellery, her lips yearning for the one who it had belonged to. When she looked back up at the Hobbit, Ardhoniel found her eyes were glazed over, and her throat had gone dry. 'Thank you.'

He only nodded, unsure what to make of the sudden emotion passing over the Elleth's face. He settled on taking another bite of his muffin, and by the time he looked back up, the emotion had faded.

* * *

Over the course of her visits, Ardhoniel gathered enough to fill the gaps in her memory. Even so, the information given by her visitors was limited – and she never asked. In many cases, knowing the details would bring nothing but pain, she'd reasoned early on. Sometimes, however, the details could not be avoided. Sometimes the details meant the difference between life and death of people she had known. Théoden King, Lord Denethor… Bruihel. Even now, several days after the demise of her good friend had been broken to her by the young Woman whom she had found in her room on that very first day and whom she had found had been somewhat of a daughter to the late Elleth, she could not come to terms with it. She had pushed it to the back of her mind, fearful that her heart could not bear the loss of another loved one, her mind the unravelling of another piece of her life. It was the best she could do right now.

And it was, she came to enjoy most – or dread least – those visitors that would regale her with tales of the past, when life was easier, and she was whole. The Dwarf, Gimli, in particular seemed to have a gift for it, and of her final days in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith he would oft tell her tales of his home and his kin – and she finally learned why he had seemed so familiar all along. When her health was improving, and she was allowed out of bed, the two could be seen walking the gardens of the City, often in company of Legolas or Mithrandir – the latter who treated her with a caution that, although not entirely surprising, was uncharacteristic to say the least. Even Aragorn, who was busy with affairs of the kingdom, joined them on their daily tour once or twice.

In fact, of those that had been close to her before the final battle, there was only one person who never came to visit – not when she was still bedridden, nor when they went out for their walks. She had been informed by Sefleth that he had survived the war, but the Woman had said little else about Boromir, nor did his former companions. A part of her was grateful for it, for it allowed her to largely ignore her conflicted feelings regarding the Gondorian. If the kiss they had shared had not been enough, what she had seen in the palantír had further complicated things. As her mind flashed back to the images that had appeared to her in the seeing stone, she felt the world around her fall away – and make room for dark, cold walls and a damp floor. Her throat closed up, heart racing as her body relived the torture it had been put through, each muscle and bone as if on fire once more – and that voice once more whispering treacherous things in her ear.

'Lady Ardhoniel?'

She blinked. Unbeknownst to her, she had stopped walking, her face pale and goose bumps covering her skin despite the sunny spring weather. Wrapping her arms around herself to hide their shaking, she directed her gaze at the Dwarf who was looking worriedly at her. 'I apologise, Master Gimli, I am not feeling to well. I fear I may have overdone my exercise for today. I should return to my rooms.'

He nodded, saying nothing of the changes he had seen in the Elven lady over the course of the last few minutes. It had not been the first time since he saw them and, in all likelihood, would not be the last. Even so, for now he said nothing of her obvious lie, nor did he push her to speak of the truth. For now, he simply gestured for her to lead the way. 'Then allow me to accompany you there.'


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: Hey all and welcome to chapter 27! As I already said, we are now finally reaching the end of this story (and this saga) and this chapter really reflects that. On another note, I am currently on vacation in the US and have limited time for writing. As such, the next chapter will not come out next week, but the week after. Sorry about that. I want to give this story the ending it deserves, and that takes more time than I currently have in a week. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-seven: Of farewells**

 _Ethuil_ had turned into _laer_ when at last Ardhoniel was considered well enough to travel, and _laer_ was slowly drawing to an end by the time that all preparations to depart Minas Tirith had finally been made. All preparations, that is, apart from packing her meagre belongings. Even after all this time, they were little more than her travel outfit and weapons, and the silky dresses that had been provided by her hosts. Despite the small size of the task and the fact that she could have easily managed to complete it alone even in her condition, she had not managed to put herself up to it until the final evening of her stay, and not without the help of the Lady Éowyn and Sefleth.

Conversation between the two Women flowed easily, seemingly unhampered by the fact that they had little in common apart from perhaps their experience in battle. However, such things were not spoken of, at least not in presence of the Elleth who was seated on the bed and was sifting through a pile of day and night dresses.

'I sure would love to see the Hidden Valley one day,' Éowyn said wistfully.

'Well, you are welcome to come and visit us sometime. You and Faramir both.' She winked. When a day had been set for the return journey, Sefleth had come to the conclusion that this may be just the chance she had been waiting for. And so she had gingerly approached Lord Elrond, whom she had rightfully guessed was in charge of making these kinds of decisions, and asked him whether she could join them on their journey to Rivendell, and stay there for a while. Seeing the obvious liking his youngest daughter had taken to the Woman, he could impossibly refuse.

'I'm not sure whether Faramir will have much time in the near future; between the rebuilding of Gondor and his new position as Prince of Ithilien, I don't imagine he will be able to venture much abroad. But perhaps I can make the journey myself,' she mused, 'I could stop in Rohan on the way – and I am sure that Gondor could use an emissary.' She moved towards the bed, scooping up the dresses that Ardhoniel had placed aside to be packed. When that task, too, had been completed, she was left to gaze around the room, looking but failing to find anything else to do.

'Is there anything else we can do?' Sefleth asked kindly, causing the Elleth to look up bewilderedly.

'No,' she said at last, 'No I think that is all. I will still have to see the stable master to make sure Nimloth is ready in the morning, but I will do that myself.'

'Are you certain? I will pass that way regardless,' Éowyn offered, a half-truth, for while it was true that she had to venture outside, the stables were not on her direct route. Even so, she felt more at ease with the idea of herself or the other Rohirric Woman venturing outside, rather than her Elven friend.

'I am certain,' Ardhoniel nodded, pushing herself off of the bed with only a barely noticeable wince, 'I should like to get some fresh air before going to bed anyway.'

The Woman of Rohan nodded, though not entirely convinced of her reasoning. In any case, she thought, they would be able to accompany her as far as the Fountain Court. With a last glance at the room, Éowyn opened the door and led the others out.

* * *

The sun had disappeared behind Mount Mindolluin by the time the trio made its way onto the Fountain Court and Ardhoniel said goodbye to her friends. Despite her resolve to complete this task herself, the Elleth found herself walking towards the stables just that bit faster than she might otherwise have done – painful memories always lurking at the very edge of her consciousness. Fortunately the walk was a short one, and by the time that she stepped into the lid stables she only needed a short moment to collect herself.

'Can I help you, miss?' An elderly Man inquired kindly when he noticed her, coming to his feet surprisingly spritely.

'I was told my horse is stalled here; bronze, goes by the name of Nimloth. I will depart tomorrow and wanted to make sure she's ready for the journey.'

He nodded, 'I will make sure any necessary preparations are made for her. Was there anything else I can do for you, miss?'

'Apples,' she said, suddenly, the memory only now returning to her. 'Nimloth loves apples. It would be great if you could put some in her saddle bags for on the road.'

'Of course miss, I will collect some from the kitchens right away,' he bowed, and left, not even giving her time to express her thanks. She wondered if he would have treated her with the same attentiveness if he had not seen her scars, or have heard the story of how she had acquired them. Even though her father, Mithrandir, and Aragorn had attempted to keep the story under wraps, her tale had leaked and by now she was sure there was not a person in Minas Tirith who did not know of the tortured She-Elf.

'It is true what they say, then – that you will leave in the morrow.'

'It is.' She turned, already knowing who she would see, although she did not expect to find him stepping out of Nimloth's box, brush in hand.

'Where shall you go?' He asked, and she realised they had had this conversation before. It seemed like ages that they had spoken thusly in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, among the festivities following the Battle of Helm's Deep.

'Home. To Imladris.' She took a step towards Nimloth, hiding herself partly behind the large animal, before forcing herself to meet his gaze. 'What about you, Lord Boromir? What shall you do next?'

As she watched, a shadow of doubt passed over his face, before disappearing after the Gondorian's practiced mask of stoicism. 'I do not know yet. Whatever Gondor needs me to do, in all likelihood – wherever that may be.'

'A true champion of your people.'

'Of Gondor's people,' he corrected, only a tad bitter. After this, the conversation fell silent, neither knowing what else to say but both feeling that if they left it now, there may never be another chance to speak.

Stroking Nimloth's muzzle, Ardhoniel wondered when things had gotten so complicated between the two of them. Perhaps they had always been. She didn't want to dwell too much on her relationship with the Gondorian, but it seemed it was not up to her to decide after all.

'Lady Ardhoniel, I…' His gaze met hers briefly, before turning to the ground, a frown marring his handsome face. 'I wish to apologise. Kissing you was… I should not have forced myself upon you. I am sorry.'

'Don't apologise for taken something that was freely given.'

He seemed surprised by her answer and momentarily stood still, unsure of how to continue after this information. A part of him rejoiced at her response, but whatever hope he felt was doused by the emotionless manner in which it was delivered. 'Then what changed?' He asked at last, carefully, as if the simple question may break her – or him.

'Everything,' she replied softly, grey gaze focused on the animal that separated them. 'Her mind flashed back to the scene she had seen in the palantír. Before the memory could suck her in, she shook her head, 'And nothing, I reckon. You are a good Man, Boromir, with a good heart,' she said, echoing the words that she had once spoken to him, although for an entirely different reason. 'My heart was never mine to give away to you fully – and now not even partly. I am sorry.'

She turned away, not able to face his obvious grief. Exhaustion was weighing her limbs down, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. 'I will return to my room now,' she whispered, 'Good night, Lord Boromir.'

* * *

The morning of her departure came all too soon – and with much less sleep than she had hoped for. Despite her best efforts to block any and all thoughts of the Man whose heart she had broken the evening prior, they had found her anyway, and had brought along thoughts of love, Thorin, and whether she would ever see the Dwarf again. Those thoughts had inevitably led her to reflect on her decision to choose life, and all the trouble it had brought her. When sunlight filtered through her window, she was just as tired and possibly even more conflicted.

The regular maids soon came in, drawing her a last warm bath and helping her in her floor-length, long-sleeved, and high-collared dress. One of the Women helped braid the upper part of her hair back in a way that covered her chipped ears, and then, with her armour completed, she was allowed to eat a light breakfast.

It was nearing tea-time when the Elleth at last arrived at the Fountain Court where, to much of her dismay, many of the people of Minas Tirith had convened. At her appearance, the crowd silenced, and Ardhoniel was painfully aware that many of their eyes were scanning her for any sign of the rumoured scars.

'Good morning,' Sefleth greeted her cheerfully as she reached their company in the middle of the crowd, and she was happy that at least one person was attempting to act naturally. Her father, sister and Aragorn, Éowyn and Faramir, Boromir – she tried not to look at the latter for too long. All of them were there. All of them watching her carefully, as if she may break with the smallest gust of wind.

Some words of a political nature were spoken by Aragorn, but they largely passed her by. Instead, she found her gaze returning to a certain Gondorian, whom she noted never quite looked in her direction. She was unsure why that fact saddened her so.

'Ardhoniel,' her head whirled back, finding Éowyn before her, Faramir standing a little behind. The young Woman reached out and took the Elleth's hand, 'I want to thank you. For being a companion when I had no one. For being my friend.'

Squeezing her hand, Éowyn attempted to ignore the empty expression on her friend's face, instead forcing a smile. 'I will come and visit you soon, I promise.'

'I look forward to that,' Ardhoniel replied at last, thinking it the correct thing to say. When the Rohirric Woman stepped away and made room for the new Queen of Gondor, she almost wished she had kept the conversation going for longer.

Arwen and her had never been close. Growing up, they had been like fire and water. Her sister had always been the calmer of the two, the wiser, the more mature. While recent events had done much to calm Ardhoniel down and mature her, she felt like they were farther apart than ever. As she looked upon her beautiful sister, she found herself not for the first time wondering whether if she had been more like Arwen, her life would have been different. Would have been easier.

'I will miss you, _muinthel-nin_ ,' Arwen spoke softly, her clear grey eyes, now cast over with tears, taking hold of hers. 'But I hope that in Imladris you will finally find the rest you need, hat you deserve, to heal.

'May you be well until we meet again.'

Ardhoniel nodded, pretending not to see the tears that flooded her sister's eyes. When her father softly announced that it was time to depart, she allowed herself to be wrapped in Arwen's embrace for a moment. Then she pulled back, her eyes once more finding Boromir who was still failing to meet her eyes, before she stepped up to Nimloth. Without another look back, she got onto her horse, and followed the others out of the White City.

Ethuil ~ spring  
Laer ~ summer  
Muinthel-nin ~ My sister


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: Welcome back to chapter 28 and thank you for having the patience for me to get this chapter out to you. I want to thank _ColdOnePaul_ , who reviewed the previous chapter, and _Tibblets,_ who reviewed chapter 26 but I forgot to mention then (sorry!) for sharing their thoughts. I think you will find the answers to your reviews in this chapter! :) As for the rest of you, thank you for sticking with me this far!**

 **I will return from holiday this Friday, but am not sure whether I will have enough time to write chapter 29 in a satisfactory way. As such, you may again expect the next chapter to come out in two weeks time. After that, there will be two more chapters, which I hope to be able to publish in one-week intervals.**

 **For now, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-eight: Of home, habits, and very old friends**

Imladris, as she had expected, was much as she remembered it. In fact, it was _exactly_ as she remembered it. Caught in eternal summer, the trees were heavy with green leaves and the flowers in bloom. Squirrels and rabbits roamed the Hidden Valley, utterly unconcerned by the company of Elves and a Woman that passed them even on their giant horses. The Elves of Imladris, too, were much like she remembered, comfortably settled in their lives of rhythm and routine.

Unchanged as it was, Ardhoniel had little difficulty in picking up the routine of her old life, long before any thought of adventure or travel had even passed her mind. On many days she strolled the gardens of her home, basking in the serenity and privacy that they brought her. Some days she would settle on the bench underneath her father's study, emerged in one book or another or simply allowing the sunshine to warm her upturned face. On others, she would hide away in one of the corners of the library, where she could go undisturbed for many hours on end. It was exactly on such a day like this, eight days after her return to Imladris, that she stumbled upon a very unexpected guest.

She had just passed through the high arch that marked the entrance of the library, a book on the history of the forging of the Silmarils and passings thereafter in hand. Turning left, she made for the secluded corner out of the way of the main isle, when she realised that there was, in fact, someone sitting in the high-backed chair she usually occupied.

She scrutinized the tiny Man from her point by a bookcase. His grey curls obscured most of his face from view, but she could catch sight of a button nose inches away from the heavy book that was balanced on his short, wobbly legs, his feet suspended one-and-a-half feet above the ground. Despite the obvious signs of aging, she recognised him in a heartbeat.

He looked up as his name, quite without thought, fell of her lips. When his brown eyes met hers, it was as if the lines in his face faded, his hair returned to its familiar shade of warm brown, and he was once again the Hobbit that she had met all those years ago.

'Ardhoniel!' He cried in surprise, putting his book aside before lowering himself onto the ground. When she came closer, he wrapped his arms around her middle – as high up as he could reach – and she, for once, did not mind the physical contact. Instead she closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift away in nostalgia. When he stepped back, she opened them reluctantly, cocking her head at the aged Hobbit.

'When did you arrive here?'

'Oh quite a while ago, really,' he replied merrily. 'Why, it was just after my 111th birthday that I decided it was time for one more adventure. And so I packed my things and started walking!' He tilted his head, curls bouncing as he looked up at her. 'Though I daresay I might ask you the same; surely you were not here all this time?' If he was even half as observant as she remembered, she had no doubt that Bilbo noticed something was different about her. Even so, he did not ask, and she was grateful for it.

'No, I was not… You might say I was off on an adventure of my own.'

'Well I hope you had more agreeable companions than on our shared adventure,' his eyes twinkled, 'Or at least a bit more well-mannered.'

She couldn't help but smile at that, remembering her own difficulties with adjusting to the Dwarves' lifestyles – and perhaps even more so Bilbo's difficulties with them. They settled back in the comfortable seats, together reminiscing on their shared adventures with Thorin Oakenshield and Company. And for a moment, all seemed like it was supposed to be.

* * *

Over the years, many came to visit her in Rivendell. Éowyn, her sister and Aragorn. And then of course there were her brothers and Sefleth, all three of whom kept her company as much as she allowed them to. But despite those short stolen moments of content, Ardhoniel found settling back into her old life more difficult than she had hoped for – more difficult, even, than when she'd first returned from her journey to Erebor.

With time, the wounds on her body healed, but the scares never left, and so she carried the reminder of her sufferings with her wherever she went. Long-sleeved dresses and loose hair could hide the majority of the damage from others, but never allowed her to forget. More difficult than the physical scars, however, was the fact that her spirit never truly recuperated from the ordeal. The nightmares never faded, leaving her with shadows on her face and mind that would only lighten during the days, but would never disappear. Some days she would be left with a sensation of surreality that she could not shake no matter what she did. On others, everything felt too real, too harsh, every sound, smell, touch, and vision causing her to shrink in on herself.

And so Ardhoniel of Imladris spent her last long years in her childhood home, a shadow of her former self and all that she'd held dear, and when the time came for the last ship to depart Middle Earth, there was no question, no moment of doubt of what her choice would be.

As certain as she was about her decision to leave Middle Earth, however, she was less certain about how best to break the news to Sefleth – and had in fact been pondering the matter for many days. While they never spoke of such things in their time together, it was no secret to Ardhoniel that the Woman had experienced significant loss in her short years, as well. First her father, then her mother, then only recently Bruihel. She feared what another loss of someone close to her would do to the young Woman – and could only hope that Sefleth had not attached herself to her too closely.

The opportunity to tell the Woman of her departure came at last on a late summer night, when her departure was nearing and her guilt of keeping it a secret had become too much to bear. As on many other days, Sefleth arrived at her door late in the afternoon, wearing breaches and a simple tunic, and still sweaty from her training with Elladan and Elrohir. It was one of the few new habits that they had developed since her return to Imladris, to share dinner in her quarters on days that she felt too unwell to face the crowds of the Hall of Fire. Incidentally, it was also a moment in which they shared news or other bits of information that may be interesting to the other – or at least Sefleth did. Now it seemed it was her turn to return the favour.

'… few bruises.' The Woman fell silent, finally noticing that she did not hold the Elleth's attention. 'Are you feeling alright, Lady Ardhoniel?'

'I am, I am sorry. It is just…' she fell silent, realising that she would have to tell her now. Somehow. She took a deep breath, 'I am leaving.'

'Leaving Rivendell?'

'Leaving Middle Earth,' she corrected, noticing Sefleth's eyes widen in response. 'To Valinor.'

'The Undying Lands,' Sefleth realised. They had discussed the mysterious island in the west before in passing, though Ardhoniel had always suspected the Woman's interest in it to be more than simple curiosity. 'You can't go! You… you've got a life left here!'

A joyless, though not unkind smile pulled at the Elleth's lips. 'It is kind of you to say, but we both know that is not true, Sefleth. My time has come.' She looked down at her hands, noticing the scar on one of their palms for the first in a long time. It was one of the scars that she could look at. One of the only ones that she was even proud of – and as she looked at it the memory of her attempted rescue of the young Dwarf flitted through her mind. It gave her the courage to press on. 'My time had indeed come quite a while ago. I was just not ready to make the decision.'

Sefleth said nothing at first, her eyes trained on the platter of food in front of her that now went untouched.

'Will you see Bruihel there?' When she looked up, her eyes were glazed over with tears, though they were not of sadness, but of hope. At Ardhoniel's confirmation, she forced a smile on her lips. 'I don't suppose I could come with you?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Will you then tell her something for me, when you see her? Will you tell her that I loved her – that I still do. That she was like a mother to me. That I still miss her.'

'I will make sure to tell her, though I suspects she already knows.'

Neither of them said something for the longest of times, as Sefleth fought to regain her composure and Ardhoniel gazed at her plate. 'When will you depart?'

'In a moon's time.'

'Then I should start readying myself to leave on my own journey, I suppose.'

'You don't have to leave Imladris, Sefleth. While my father will make the journey with me, my brothers have decided to stay behind for now. I am sure they would not mind your company.'

'That is very kind, but I think it is time for me to go home. I have been away long enough already. Perhaps I shall take a last detour via Gondor, take Lady Éowyn up on her invitation to visit her and Lord Faramir in Ithilien.' She nodded to herself, eyes distant as she was seemingly already mapping the journey out in her mind. As such, she missed the wave of emotion that passed over the Elleth's face.

It had been a long time since Ardhoniel's mind had turned to Gondor, and the Man whose heart she had broken. Early on she had decided that her actions had been the best for all involved, and had resolved to close off that chapter of her life once and for all. She could honestly say she had succeeded – until now. Unbiddenly, she found herself wondering where he was. How he was. If he was even still alive. She felt her throat constrict and quickly averted her eyes, lest the Woman would see the moisture in them. 'Would you mind… When you are there, would you mind inquiring after the welfare of Lord Boromir?'

'Of course.'

No more words were spoken between the two that evening, both lost in thoughts of both the past and the future. Thoughts of farewell were still pushed away far from their minds, neither willing nor ready to take their leave of the other just yet.

* * *

At last the morning came of the Elves' departure from the Hidden Valley. The grass was still covered with dew, the creatures of the forest not yet awoken, when they said their goodbyes of those who remained behind. By the time that Bilbo was safely settled on a cart and their procession had made it up to the entrance of the Valley, it was nearing midmorning, and Ardhoniel was already quite ready for the journey to be over. Unfortunately for her, it would prove a long journey west, still.

They met Galadriel and her guards at the Last Bridge. From the penetrating nature of her gaze, Ardhoniel knew that her grandmother could see past her polite smile and faked cheerfulness, but she was glad that the older Elleth said nothing. Galadriel's gaze seemed to soften for a moment, however, before her attention was drawn to a curious and somewhat excited Bilbo. Many more days passed, and once wasteland had turned into woodland, and woodland had turned into grassland, they finally met Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee at Woody End on September 26, in the year of 3021 of the Third Age.

While not having met them before, it was unquestionable from the first moment she laid eyes on them that these two had shared great adventure – and great grief. What was more, when her eyes connected with Frodo's crystal blue ones over the light of the campfire one night, Ardhoniel felt there was an instant connection, an unspoken understanding, between two souls that were both too broken to continue on. They did not speak to one another, and it felt like no words were needed, and so she simply offered him a ghost of a smile, which he returned in spirit.

They at last arrived at the Grey Havens after another three days of travel, where they met up with Mithrandir, Merry, and Pippin, and the last words of goodbye were spoken to those staying behind. For a moment, Ardhoniel simply stood, watching as friends were torn apart, never to be reunited, feeling a detached sense of emptiness. Who did _she_ leave behind? Or was she already the one left behind, now only to be united with family, friends… a loved one? She was unsure whether that path still existed – if it had ever existed at all, and had not merely been the product of her dying mind.

Then a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up to find that the Istar had found its way to her. His face, for once, was not one of scorn, or even of disapproval, but bore a sense of kindness. Of sadness. Of absolution.

'It is time, Ardhoniel.'


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note: Welcome back all and thank you for your never-ending patience with me! This chapter took a lot of reading and referencing source material, so I hope I have done the work by Prof. Tolkien justice. In any case, I am curious to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Many thanks to _ColdOnePaul_ and _Tibblets_ for their reviews of the last chapter; you guys are amazing!**

 **With this chapter, we are also nearing the end. Like I mentioned before, there will be one more (very long) chapter** **– and not to spoil things too much, but there will also be a epilogue. Now, enjoy the chapter and don't forget to review!**

* * *

 **Chapter twenty-nine: Under friendlier skies**

Their White Ship followed the Straight Road for five days through open sea. Five days of nothing but water in every direction, of nothing but the salty sea wind, the calming sway of the boat, and the company of family and friends to keep one occupied. And then there were seagulls, soaring on the wind as they kept pace with their ship. And then there was land, far on the horizon and yet unmistakable, firm, land.

On the sixth day, they reached the large haven of Avallonë. Here they transferred to another, smaller ship, meant for shallower waters, and continued on to Alqualondë, and it was on the morning of the eighth day after departing from Middle-Earth that they sailed into these havens. Tall walls of sandstone rose up on either side of them, large towers and luxurious homes that bordered the ocean decorated with the treasures that it provided. The rising sun played on the reflective surfaces of the seashells embedded in the architecture, pearls shimmering warmly even in the still chilly morning air.

Unwillingly, Ardhoniel found herself coming to a halt, eyes closing as she took in the fresh air, the morning breeze – the pure bliss. It was something she could not describe, something so utterly instinctive that she knew no other way to explain it but magic.

Upon hearing her name called, she reluctantly opened her eyes, finding the others had already moved along the pier, and quickly hurried along. Together, they made their way through the buzzling haven city, where they acquired rations, a cart, and horses for the last leg of their journey.

As Mithrandir explained, their journey would cost them another five days, for they would have to travel south towards the Calacirya, a cleft in the Pelóri mountain range that separated the east coast from the inner lands of Valinor. There, they would find the green hill of Túna, on which was based the largest settlement of Elves west of the sea, Tirion. Truthfully, now that she was here Ardhoniel did not care all that much about the duration of the journey, feeling like she could never be unhappy again in a land as beautiful as this. Indeed, she thought she would be quite content spending the rest of eternity riding through the endless greenlands and pastures.

And she may have been, until they finally passed into the Calacirya and she saw it. White crystal steps, leading up to white golden gates. Beyond, she could make out the white walls and terraces of grand mansions and wealthy dwellings, linked together by streets of diamond, shimmering in the afternoon sun. From in the heart of the city, a tall tower reached high into the sky and gazed out over the outstretched lands and the sea. Even for someone who cared nothing for gems and riches, it was enough to steal one's breathe away. For Ardhoniel, it was like nothing she had seen before, and the company came to a standstill as they stood in awe at the sight.

'Tirion – city of the Eldar,' Mithrandir announced, waking everyone from their temporary stupor.

'Let us continue, so that we can make it to the city gates before nightfall.'

And so they did. Some of the previously abandoned conversation was started back up, but participation was limited, and half-hearted at best, for all – with the exception of perhaps Mithrandir and Galadriel – were too transfixed by the city that awaited them. As her father had predicted, they reached the gates near sundown, the red light dancing on the pure white like flame. The gates were open and unguarded, and they passed into the silver streets of the city without pause or resistance. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, and they followed the sound to a large square in the heart of the city. Nearly a hundred feet in breadth and width, the square was surrounded on all sides by dwellings the like of which none of them had ever seen. On one side stood the tall tower they had seen before, which her father now explained was the tower of Mindon Eldaliéva, built by the High King Ingwë. At its peak, it held a silver lantern, which shone out far to the sea. In the middle of the square was stood a large fountain, made of white gold, which at the centre held a single flower and a piece of fruit, representing the two remnants of the Two Trees that had become their Sun and Moon. Despite the late hour, it was still quite busy, Elves walking to and fro, not at all alarmed by or even interested in the company of newcomers that had appeared in their midst. Because of this, it was all the more surprising when one of them, a youthful male in pale blue robes, approached them.

'I welcome you, travellers,' he spoke, and he bowed to each of them. 'Long and far has been your journey. My lady has bid me to invite you to rest at her house tonight; soft beds to revive you, and food to fill your hungry stomachs.'

'Food?' Bilbo repeated, suddenly perched up right on the cart and looking far more attentive than he had so far.

The Elf nodded, then made a sweeping direction towards the right. 'It is right this way; if you will follow me.'

Ardhoniel sneaked a glance at her companions, unsure what to make of his kindness. Might it be a trap? Her father's expression revealed nothing – her grandmother simply smiled absentmindedly, in that way that she did when she knew something others did not. Ardhoniel sighed, realising there was nothing to do but follow, and urged her horse onwards.

They ended up following the Elf, who was revealed to be named Nandir, for another ten minutes, up a small hill that looked out over the rest of the city. As they did, Nandir politely inquired after their journey across the Belegaer and across the lands of Valinor. Despite the Ellon's best efforts, however, most of the journey was taken in silence. At last, when the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon, they stopped in front of one of the mansions.

It was of moderate size, nothing like the dwellings they had seen near the town square but still large enough to house an extended family. Like the other buildings in the city, its walls were of the purest white, seemingly emitting a pale light all of their own. The steps leading up to the front door were made of crystal and shimmered brightly in the moonlight.

'You may leave your horses here, I shall make sure they are brought to the stables and are well taken care of,' Nandir said, 'Please proceed to the front door, my lady expects you.'

Following the example of the others, Ardhoniel descended from her horse and then aided Frodo in getting Bilbo down from the cart. Together, they walked up the steps to the front door, and she couldn't help but note that the younger Hobbit, too, shared her expression of reserve. Their trials still fresh in mind, they were slow to let their guard down and even slower to trust. The company had to wait but a moment on the doorstep before the white door opened – and all reservation was washed from Ardhoniel's face, making room for unadulterated surprise.

There she was, exactly like she remembered from when she was but a young Elfling. And yet, she couldn't help but study her as if she had never seen her before. Her silver hair – so like her own – was drawn back from her face, revealing fair skin and delicate features. Unlike her own, however, those features were kind and forgiving, with warm grey eyes and soft pink lips. And those lips were currently pulled up in a hint of smile, as those grey eyes met her own. Lost in reverie as she had been, it seemed all others had already been greeted by the lady, and had passed further into the house.

' _Nana_ …' She found herself whispering, unsure even now that she stood before her that this was real. So many years had passed. So many years in which she had accepted, but never truly had made peace with the absence of her mother. She had still been very young when her mother had made the decision to sail into the West, and far less understanding of that decision than she knew she should have been. Back then, she had been unable to fathom what kind of grief could move someone to leave all that they loved behind. In hindsight, it seemed like a trick of fate that the same reasons that had brought Celebrían to these shores had now also driven her.

Something shifted in the older Elleth's grey eyes, came undone, as she too reminisced on the many years apart. It had been many years since she had last heard that title. Many years since she had last held her children. When the time for a reunion would come, she had hoped it would be for happier reasons. She touched one hand to her daughter's hair, knowing – perhaps better than anyone – the horrors than she had lived through, and lamenting that her own fate had to be Ardhoniel's. Valinor soothed many wounds, but she feared even all the magic in Aman would not be enough to heal her daughter's wounds. As it had not been enough for her.

'Come inside, _henig_ ,' Celebrían said at last, voice a little thick as she smiled through the tears in her eyes. 'Dinner is near ready and I am sure our other guests are getting restless.'

Ardhoniel was led through a wide corridor, past several other doors and arches until at last they entered a fine dining room. It was nearly fifty feet in width, and almost as deep as it was wide. It was generously lit by a dozen candles that were set in elegantly wound silver holders on the walls. The chamber was clearly located at the back of the house, for one wall was covered by grand windows and doors that led into the garden. In the middle of the room was set a large, square table, clad with white cloth and set with plates, cups, and cutlery of shining silver. Many of the places were already taken, with Bilbo and Frodo having chosen to sit on the far side near the window, where it was more quiet – although that did not seem to stop Bilbo from asking questions to the nearest Elf. Why, just now he…

She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide as she took a double take at the unfortunate victim of the curious Hobbit's questions. 'Neneth?'

The silver-haired Elleth looked up, eyes wide with merriment but – she noticed with interest – not in surprise. Excusing herself from the elderly Hobbit, Neneth rounded the table and quite literally threw her arms around her childhood friend. Words to express her joy at seeing her again escaped Ardhoniel and she would not have the time to speak them anyway, for just then another tall figure stopped near them.

'Well isn't this cute. I am afraid I will have to break you two up, however, or else my brother might get ill-humoured.'

'Bruihel!' Ardhoniel cried, a smile spreading easily across her lips at the familiar teasing. How she had missed her – had missed both of them. Indeed, she even welcomed the sour face of the Ellon in question as he stepped closer and gave her a curt nod of the head. Turning back to his sister, Ardhoniel felt her lips easing into a less wide – but no less genuine – smile. 'Under friendlier skies.'

'Under friendlier skies,' she agreed, 'Although I must admit this was not entirely what I had in mind. You must tell me all about how…-'

'Time for dinner, children,' Celebrían chided good-naturedly, gesturing for them to take their seats as food was served. 'I did not invite you here just to waste my food and ruin my peace.' On the inside, she found her heart easing just a little. Perhaps. Perhaps all would be all right, after all.

~ Nana = Mum  
~ Henig = My child

* * *

 **Author's Note.** I have not said it explicitly, though I do think it is implied, but I imagine Celebrían also having the gift of foresight at least to some extent. At the very least, I think she would have felt they were coming.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: Hello all and welcome back! I hope you've all had a nice weekend and are enjoying the summer! I want to thank _Tibblets_ for their review of the previous chapter; you rock! As for this chapter: I know I initially said it would be the last real chapter but I must come back on that. I usually write an outline for each chapter and I also did that for this chapter. However, I didn't realise many of the things I wanted to put in there would take a lot of time, and to avoid that this chapter would be over 9,000 words, I decided to cut it up in at least two, but maybe even three chapters. So because of that, this chapter is _not_ the end. Sorry about the confusion!**

 **Now, on with the story and don't forget to drop me a review with your thoughts! :)  
**

* * *

 **Chapter thirty: The choice**

She was given a room on the east side of the mansion, with large doors like those in the dining room that opened up to a small balcony that overlooked part of the city, the rolling grassy hills that surrounded it, and beyond, the Belegear. When she'd moved to open the doors, a fresh breeze, carrying a hint of saltiness, had brushed past her into the room, and she had once again found her eyes closing, all troubles falling away as she simply enjoyed the sensation. Soon after she had readied herself for bed, careful not to gaze down at her unclad body as to not ruin the illusion, and when she'd woken in the morning, a part of her had been surprised to find herself in that same room looking out at the sea – surprised that it had been real.

Bruihel had appeared soon after, clad in riding gear and insisting that they go for a ride beyond the city walls. And for once, Ardhoniel had found she did not mind the request. She'd dressed quickly and gone down to find the stable master had already prepared the white mare that she had ridden since her arrival in Valinor. A hint of sadness had then come to her, remembering how she'd had to leave Nimloth behind when she came to these coasts, and realising that she would never see her again. Then Bruihel had come up to her, offering her an apple that she had apparently taken from the kitchens and putting away some other provisions in her own saddle bags for later, and the spell had been broken.

The remainder of that day had been spent mostly outside the city walls, as had many thereafter. Racing down the rolling hills, picnicking down by the little stream than ran past the city, or hiking in the foothills of the Pelóri mountains; it seemed nothing was beyond the imagination of the younger Elleth. Many days they would venture out at the break of dawn with just the two of them, only to return when the sun was already setting in the west. Some other days they would bring along Neneth and Aglaron, who generally preferred to keep more reasonable hours. Even then, however, there was plenty to do in the city, and soon enough Ardhoniel knew all about the city's shops, sights, and inhabitants.

On those rare days that she spent indoors, she would take to the large dining room, which was often used during the day as the backdrop of many an intellectual discussion. While not very interested in participating herself, Ardhoniel enjoyed to watch the partakers – usually her father, Bilbo, Nandor, and some of the other Elves from the village – spar on any and every issue they fancied that day. Her mother, equally as disinterested in participating, would usually come sit with her, and while they usually spoke little, it was a nice feeling anyway.

Indeed, when she was not with Bruihel, she often found herself gravitating towards the older Elleth, either for quiet companionship or thoughtful conversation. It seemed the feeling was mutual, too, for when she was not looking for Celebrían, the other Elleth usually found her. As had been the case that particular morning.

'It is a shame the rain foiled your riding trip with Bruihel,' her mother mused, as she gazed out of the double doors with a frown. Ardhoniel had just returned to her room after a long bath, after realising that she would not be in any hurry to get dressed that day anyway. Indeed, the rain had swept in quite suddenly just before morning, and not left ever since. It could not be helped of course – or so Mithrandir insisted – but it did mean that she and Bruihel had had to postpone their trip to the sea for another day. With nothing but time on their hands, however, that was hardly a problem.

'Indeed.' She sat down at her toilet table, careful to keep her robe in place as to hide the marks that lay beneath. 'Although I do not mind spending a little time in the house.'

'You used to dread it,' Celebrían said with a smile, eyes distant as they reminisced on a time long gone, 'It was near impossible to keep you inside long enough to even put some clothes on you. I dare say it is a miracle you have learned to read and write at all; you were barely present during your lessons.'

Ardhoniel found her eyes connecting with her mother's in the mirror, and a smile appeared on her own mouth. 'And when I did, I don't recall ever having a mind for listening. Poor Erestor…'

'Well, he was used to your brothers…' Celebrían amended, though Ardhoniel could see the smile on her face fading and her eyes growing sad, before quickly stepping up to the toilet table and taking the brush from her hand. 'Come, allow me to do that.'

She did not argue as her mother gently took her golden hair under her care, knowing that both needed the simple distraction it offered – and not entirely minding the featherlight touches to her scalp. Indeed, she was enjoying the soft but steady movement of the brush sliding through her hair so much that she almost missed the Elleth's question.

'What is this?'

Opening her eyes, she found that the brush had stilled somewhere on the back of her head. She followed her mother's gaze in the mirror to one particular strand of hair that was still braided, clasped with a silver bead at the end. Thorin's bead. 'It was a gift.'

'It looks Dwarven,' Celebrían mused, one thumb brushing over the uneven surface of the delicate piece of jewellery.

'It is.' It was not the first time that she had looked at the bead in the last few weeks. Not the first time she had thought of how she had acquired it. Of who it had belonged to. In fact, as time went by and her other hurts healed, she became more and more aware of the gaping hole in her heart that had yet to show signs of healing. And more and more she found her gaze turning to the east, where she knew lay the Halls of Mandos. 'It was given to me by the King of Erebor, after assisting them in reclaiming their homeland. Or trying to assist at the very least,' she amended, the sting from the truth now far less than it had been once upon a time. 'It had belonged to their late King and his uncle, Thorin Oakenshield.'

'A kingly gift, indeed,' her mother said only as she resumed brushing her hair, though there was something in her eyes that made Ardhoniel believe she had wanted to say more. Something that reminded her a lot of her grandmother in her quiet all-knowingness.

Emboldened by the sneaking suspicion that her mother knew already anyway, and fuelled by a desire to speak of her feelings to another soul at least once, she returned her gaze to her mother's – which she now noticed had yet to leave her face. 'During the Quest, I started to develop _feelings_ for him. Annoyance, first and foremost, mind you, but in time…

'We were separated in Mirkwood and when I returned to them it was already too late. He died before they ever had the time to develop into something deeper, let alone tell him of them. Unfortunately that did not stop that development from happening after his death.' She frowned, thinking back on the many years that she had spent in hiding, hoping that it may shield her from further heartbreak. And it had. But looking back on it, it also meant that she remembered little of those years – primarily because she had been so busy blocking out the pain that she had also blocked out any opportunity for something else, something better. While nothing could ever outweigh the horrors that she had lived through, she could not say she regretted the journey that had brought her there. And all that because of one simple decision. To let go of her past. To be brave. To live.

'I fought in a siege on a Rohirric fort. Nearly died there, too,' she admitted factually, feeling like such things as near-death experiences were hardly important now that she had come here. 'When I lost consciousness, I came to in halls that resembled the Gallery of Kings in Erebor and yet I was quite sure they were not. And then I saw him, as clear as I now see you standing here and as solid as the ground beneath our feet. And we spoke, freely for the first time, and…' Her voice broke, suddenly overcome with emotions that had long lain dormant. Pressing a hand to her quivering lips, she smiled despite the tears that welled up in her eyes. 'And he loves me, _nana_. He loves me as I now know I love him.'

As she admitted this, she felt the brush in her hair still and for a moment, she feared she had been wrong in her judgment of Celebrían. The next, two warm arms fell across her shoulders, pressing her back against the chest of her mother. Neither of them said anything for the longest of times, until at last Ardhoniel drew back, tears long dried on her cheeks and turned to face her mother.

'Do you think it is possible? Do you think it is possible that I saw him? Do you think I may see him again?'

'I think the Valar work in ways that we do not always understand.'

'But I rejected their offer,' she bit her lip, lest it would start shaking once again. 'I was offered the choice of staying and I rejected. Does that mean it's gone forever?'

'I wish I could give you the answer, my dear Ardhoniel, but the only answer that I have for you is that I do not know. I am afraid that only the Valar themselves would be able to tell you that.'

Ardhoniel nodded with a sad smile, not even a little surprised that her mother had not been able to answer more satisfactorily – but finding herself disappointed regardless. Even so, over the next weeks she would find that while not satisfactory in and of themselves, Celebrían's words gave her much to think about, and would eventually spark the flame that ended it all.

* * *

Only the Valar themselves would be able to tell you that. By the time that those words passed through her brain for the fiftieth time, they did not sound half as despondent as they had that first time. By the time that they passed for the hundredth time, they sounded like a promise. By the time that they passed for the two hundredth time, they sounded like a plan. Speak to the Valar. How difficult could it be? These were their lands after all.

Two weeks had passed since that rainy day, but she had yet to say a word about her plan to her family or friends. It didn't take any measure of foresight to know that they would not like it one bit. Yet, as much as she wanted to slip out unnoticedly one day like she had all those years ago to Erebor, she knew that it was not an option now. There was no telling if she'd come back – and if all went well, she even expected not to.

It was after another dinner with her family and several guests that she finally mustered up the courage to speak plainly of her plans. Ever since they had formed, she had been unable to rest, keeping her occupied night and day to the point that she could not sleep and barely eat. A heartburn that had nothing to do with physical illness pressed down on her chest and made it difficult to breathe. It was time – whether she wanted it or not.

'Ardhoniel… Ardhoniel?'

She looked up, barely surprised at this point that she had once again drifted off into her own thoughts. 'Pardon?'

Bruihel looked mildly affronted, but apparently did not think it would make sense to scold her on her absent-mindedness again. 'I thought it might be nice to leave on a longer trip to Alqualondë; it's the fishing season and many of the pears and seashells are collected around this time. It is quite a sight!'

There it was of course. She could say yes. A part of her wanted to say yes; to continue on in the same manner as she had these past months, to settle for the sleeplessness, the heartburn, to settle for contentness with her family and friends. But could she? All those long years of her youth, she had run from one thing to another in hopes of finding her place in the world. Could she now ignore that she had found it, right beside Thorin? More importantly, would she ever forgive herself if she did not at least try?

Bruihel was staring at her, she realised, still waiting for her to agree to the proposal. 'I can't,' she said instead, her voice soft but somehow still loud enough to silence many of the conversations on her side of the table. 'I can't because…' Her eyes found her mother's, and despite the sad smile that lingered on her lips, Celebrían's silver eyes were enough to convince her that she was doing the right thing. 'Because I must speak to the Valar.'

'To the Valar?' Bruihel repeated in disbelief.

'They gave me a choice once; I want to see if it still stands.'

'You will not find them,' her father said, though not spitefully. 'The Valar show themselves to few. If there was a choice, they would have let you know.'

'And yet I must try,' she insisted, though she found her throat constrict, 'I must _know_.'

'And what then?' Elrond asked tiredly, 'What if you do manage to get an audience with them? What if it still stands?'

'I think you know.'

He merely nodded, his face unreadable even to Ardhoniel, who had spent years trying to navigate his temper. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, for she was not sure if she could live in the face of his anger. Or disappointment.

'I'll come with you,' Bruihel suddenly piped up, breaking the tense silence that had hung in the room ever since her response.

'As will I,' Neneth offered, seemingly to the surprise of her lover, who looked uncomfortably between the Elleth and his childhood torment for a moment before he, too, offered his assistance.

A smile had found its way on her lips despite the situation, as Ardhoniel gazed at her two – no, _three_ friends. 'You can't, not this time. This is something I must do on my own.'  
Bruihel looked as if she wanted to object, but in the end said nothing, before nodding in defeat. Growing serious once more, Ardhoniel turned back to her parents, voice calm, but determined, 'I will depart for Valmar at the week's end.'

* * *

The dinner party had disbanded soon after those words had been spoken, none of them really feeling up to the light-hearted revels anymore. It was not a matter of anger, however, and over the course of the week many of her friends and family came to show this in their own way. Her mother gifted her with a silver cloak that would keep her warm in even the iciest of places, and would keep her cool in the hottest. Neneth came to help her pack her things. Bruihel helped prepare rations. Even Aglaron came to her room one day seemingly to criticize her on her unorderliness – but it was only after he left that she noticed the new quiver, stocked with arrows, lying on a side table. However, it was only on the last evening before her departure, just as she was making her way to the feast thrown in her honour, that Elrond called her into his study.  
Apprehension pooled in her stomach as she followed her father into the room silently, steeling herself for what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant conversation.

While there had never been animosity between them, Elrond and his youngest daughter had never quite seen eye to eye. In many ways, she was his polar opposite: too wild, too rash, too unreasonable for a man as sensible as him to ever understand. And while his wife, in many things, was much like her, Ardhoniel was stubborn and tempered – not unlike him – which made that they agreed on little. Or nothing at all.

'What route shall you take?'

'Pardon?' She blinked, unsure whether she had been so deeply emerged in her own thoughts that she might have missed the first half of the question. Apparently not…

'What route shall you take?' Elrond's grey eyes perceived her sternly, the particular emotion in them so familiar that her mind replayed all the times it had been directed at her as if by its own will. That time when she had snuck out during one of her diplomacy lessons and he had later asked her how they had been. That time when he'd caught her cheating during a shooting contest. Or that time when she had drifted off during a particularly important moment during her Healing studies with him and he had later asked her to create the herb mixture by herself. It was the look that he gave her when asking her a question he knew she couldn't answer.

'I… I am not sure,' she said honestly, directing her gaze downwards rather than meeting his eyes and seeing the next expected emotion there – disappointment.

A deep sigh filled the silent study, and Elrond moved towards the window with a deep frown on his face. Indeed, they agreed on little. Nevertheless, he loved her as much as any of his children. 'It is a four-day ride to Valmar. From there, it's another day's ride to the south-east until you reach the foothills of Taniquetil, where is a path that leads up to Illmarin.'

His words hung in the air for several long seconds, before Ardhoniel finally lifted her gaze and stared at her father in confusion. 'You… you're permitting me to go?'

'The path up the mountain is treacherous, made even more so by the ice that covers the higher parts. You can't afford to lose focus even for a second or it will cost you your life.' His gaze burned into hers, before it softened and a rare smile found its way on his lips. 'Come, we should not keep your mother waiting any longer.'


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: Welcome back, all! I will keep this AN short but wanted to give you guys a head's up that there will be one more chapter behind this one. With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter (and if you do: please let me know through a review)!**

* * *

 **Chapter thirty-one: Mountain's cold**

As had been said, Ardhoniel of Imladris left the city of Tirion at the week's end. The farewell had been hard on all of them, not in the least because none knew whether it was for but a short time, or for eternity. Even so, when she left the city behind her and passed onto the white sandy road to Valmar, there was a smile on her face and an ease to her posture that had long been absent.

She saw little travellers along the road for the first three days of her journey. Once in a while she did pass the occasional farmer working in the rolling fields of the great Plain of Valinor, and she even passed some merchants that were heading in the direction of the sea. All she met were friendly, asking her who she was and where she was heading, promising her that the city of Valmar would be a true sight for sore eyes. It was not until the dawn of the third day that her eyes at last fell upon the rumoured city, and it was not until noon of the next that she passed through its golden gates. When she did, she understood that the splendour of the city had not been overstated. The roofs of great mansions and fine villas rose high up in the sky, shining golden in the afternoon sun. The doors to every building, big or small, were of polished bronze, the very stones in the street made of pure silver. All in all, it was like nothing she could have ever dreamed to exist.

Ardhoniel paused a moment to take it in, before urging her horse on towards the heart of the city. She ended up spending the night there, in a luxurious inn with comfortable beds and nutritious food. In the morning, she departed well-rested and with her belly filled, fresh rations packed into her saddle bags for the upcoming journey. The innkeeper gave her the directions to the southeast of the city, where she was told another golden gate would allow her to leave the city. She left in the suggested direction and departed Valmar before mid-morning – and she found herself thinking how ridiculously easy this journey was compared to many of her journeys back in Middle-Earth.

Indeed, she was still counting her luck on the relative smoothness of her journey so far when she came to a fork in the road, one path heading to the east and the other to the south. A large, white boulder was situated in between the two paths, on which was sat a brown-haired female. Urging her mount forward, Ardhoniel offered her a friendly smile when their gazes met.

'Well met,' the Elleth called out to her, one hand lifted over her eyes to shield them from the rising sun. 'I just sat down for a bit to rest my weary feet; will you not join me?'  
Ardhoniel considered her somewhat unusual request, but found no reason to deny her. Early on in her time in Valinor, she had learned that the people here had little reason for deception, and thus employed it rarely. 'I have some pears and apples, if you like?'

'Oh that would be lovely!' She moved to the side, making some space for Ardhoniel to sit down on the rock next to her. Whilst offering her the food, Ardhoniel had a chance to study the stranger. She was older than her, she would reckon – though of course such things were difficult to tell even for Elves themselves – with fine lines in the corners of her forest green eyes. Nevertheless, they did not take away from the beauty of them, perhaps if only because they were the only thing of beauty to be found there. Her nose was neither slim nor thick, her mouth neither narrow or wide, and her eyebrows were neither arched nor flat. The hair that was braided away from her face was dark of colour but, in any other aspect, as plain as the face that held those glittering green eyes.

'It is beautiful here, is it not?' The Elleth asked her with a hint of a smile on her lips – and Ardhoniel found to her embarrassment that she had been caught staring.

'Yes,' she at last agreed, a bit too forcefully, although the other female did not seem to notice.

'Yet most people don't come here to enjoy the scenery,' she said, green eyes turning to the east and the mountains that lay there. They finished their foods in silence after that, neither particularly inclined to conversation. When the last of the fruit had been eaten, Ardhoniel turned back to her companion.

'Well, I best get going again… I've got a long way ahead of me. It was a pleasure meeting you.'

'The pleasure was mine,' the Elleth replied with a kind smile, watching her as she put away her things in her saddle bags and mounted her horse. 'Where shall you go from here?'

'The mountains,' she motioned her head in the direction of the Pelóri.

'What for?'

'To seek out the Valar,' Ardhoniel replied after a short pause. So far, the Elleth had given her no reason for suspicion, so she supposed it would not hurt to tell her this. 'I was told this is where Manwë and Varda reside.'

'It is.'

'You have been there? Then it is true that they speak to visitors.'

The Elleth regarded her for a moment, the smile for once not present on her face. 'They do sometimes allow visitors in to speak – but they rarely listen.' She regarded the younger female with a look of sympathy. 'I am afraid you will not find the answer to your questions there, child. And if you do, it will not be to your liking.'

'I… I have to try.'

'Then you must do so,' her eyes had strayed again to the mountain, 'I wish you all the luck in the world.'

Ardhoniel waited a moment longer, but when the female spoke no more, she nodded to herself and took the reins. The mount had taken its first step when something occurred to Ardhoniel, and she found herself coming to a stop once more. 'Where shall you go?'

The female looked up, seemingly surprised she was still there. 'Me? Oh, I think I shall sit here for a little bit longer. It is quite a nice spot for pondering one's thoughts.'  
Ardhoniel nodded, unsure what to make of her answer. 'Alright, well… good luck with that then.' And with that said, she flicked the reins continued.

* * *

She reached the foothills of the Pelóri just before nightfall and, after locating the path to the summit, made camp near its head. In the morning, remembering what her father had said about the path that lay ahead, she unloaded her bags from her mount and set the animal free. Like the horses they had used in Middle Earth, she knew it would come back to her when she'd come back down – _if_ she would come back down.

The first two days up the mountain where quite comfortable. The path was broad and even, and the mountain seemed to provide shade during the hottest hours whilst gracing her with sunlight during the earlier hours when the air was still chilly. It all changed on the third day.

The first thing she noticed was that the sun no longer warmed her back as she started her hike in the morning. The second thing she noticed was that the air, too, seemed colder and the wind more biting, hitting painfully against the exposed skin of her face. The path had also gradually become narrower, and jutting rocks had replaced the even sand path. And then, sometime during midday, she rounded a bend and found no rocks anymore at all. Instead, powdery white covered the mountain, smoothening out its sharp edges and ridges. As she continued to climb, however, the snow soon became less powdery and more hard and icy. With it, the biting of the wind turned into a slicing that left her face sensitive and red.

That night, she barely slept at all. When night had started to fall and it had become too dangerous to continue on in the limited light, she had settled under a small overhang. However, the slab of rock over her head did little to shield her from the icy wind, and even her mother's cloak could not keep her feet from freezing in her boots.  
'It will be over soon,' she told herself, if only to hear something other than the howling wind, 'It will all be over soon.'

The next day was, if possible, even worse. The snow got icier, more slippery – less forgiving of any misstep. And with the newly falling snow in her face, and the cold wind tearing up her eyes, there were several. Most times she got lucky, just in time regaining her balance, or catching onto a rock wall. Once, not so much. She had just climbed up another steep part of the path and had stopped to take a breath before continuing. She tried to be optimistic, thinking that it couldn't be that much farther to the summit – but truly she had no way of knowing. All she knew was that the wind was cold, the air was cold, and the digits on her hands and feet were as well. As she continued with a sigh, she made sure to rub her mitten-clad hands together in an effort to return some heat to them. And missed the icy slab of snow beneath her feet.

Before she well knew it, she was tumbling down the hill, painfully hitting bumps and dips that she had passed earlier. Once or twice she hit a particularly sharp rock, before at last coming to a stop not far from where the path had first started its sharp ascent. For several minutes, she just lay there, eyes staring up at the white skies, too tired to get up and continue on her path. Her chin throbbed violently, and when she reached one cold hand up it came away red and sticky. Another cut. Another scar. It was of little concern to her now.

At last she flipped over, getting on her hands and knees before finally pushing herself to stand. A quick glance told her that apart from some scraps and what would surely be some colourful bruises, she was alright. It would have been a great comfort, had her eye not fallen on the steep path that she would now have to climb again.

* * *

She reached the summit at last on the seventh day. Delirious from exhaustion from the lack of sleep, the cold, and the overall exertion, she stumbled in the direction of the small village that lay there, before she caught sight of the pearly white mansion that lay above it, on the very top of Taniquetil. Redirecting her steps, she near ran the last half a mile to Illmarin. After half-climbing, half-crawling her way up the stairs, she pushed open the white double doors with her last remaining strength – and fell into a large, empty white hall.

She did not move at all at first, content to lay on the snow-free floor, drinking in the silence around her now that the wind had been left outside. At long last, she lifted her head, taking in the room she was in. Or lobby, it appeared like. The room was about sixty-five feet from one wall to the other, and completely circular in form. The floor, the walls, and the ceiling – if it was there at all – were white, and absolutely barren of any kind of decoration. Indeed, she herself looked awfully out of place in this pristine chamber.

She pushed herself up onto her knees, ignoring the way every muscle in her body seemed to protest the action, and looked around. 'Hello?' The word echoed around the room, stretching into eternity. 'Is anyone here?'

Minutes passed without an answer, and slowly, expectation turned to irritation. And to anger. She stood up, grey eyes flaring as she looked around wildly, searching for her hosts. 'Manwë? Varda?' More silence. She bristled, 'I did not sail to the Undying Lands, cross half of the continent, and nearly die on this forsaken mountain to be ignored by you!' She turned around, half-expecting one of them to have appeared behind her. There was nothing. 'I came all this way to get answers. To _know_. I am not asking you to change the fate of the world! I am not even asking you to do anything at all, but answer my question. The least you could do is listen to me!'

She turned around again, by now not even expecting anything but white to greet her, but found that sometime during her tirade, someone _had_ appeared. He stood near the far wall, his lined face impassive as he regarded her ire. He was dressed in robes of blue that matched his eyes, and seemed to stand at least three foot taller than her.  
For the longest of times nothing happened. Then at last he tilted his head to her in what seemed to be a gesture of encouragement.

'I…' suddenly her mouth felt very dry, and she was reminded of the many days she had spent out on the mountain. Using her previous anger as fuel for her exhausted body, she stood a little straighter, 'Your offer. I came here to ask you about your offer to me.'

A silence followed her words, and the expression on his face did not change. Soon, she found herself growing uncomfortable under that powerful gaze, disconcerted by his non-responsiveness.

'When I nearly died, I appeared in the Halls of Mandos and I was told that… I was told that I could pass into the Halls set aside for the Dwarves. Surely you remember?' She asked, her voice now taking on a desperate note as he kept quiet. There was no one but the Valar with the power to grant such choices. It had to have been him. 'You _must_ remember…'

Her breathing hitched, blind panic taking over, 'Please. I know it was real – it cannot have not been!' Tears pricked her eyes as she gazed at his motionless form. 'Do not play games with me, I beg of you. I simply need to know: does your offer of taking my immortality still stand?'

Even across the distance she could perceive the shift in his eyes, the softening of those clear blue orbs, well before he finally opened his mouth. 'I am afraid my answer will not be to your liking, Ardhoniel of Imladris, but I will honour your wish and speak plainly.

'There is no, nor was there ever any, offer extended on my behalf such as you describe.'

'No,' she said at long last, nearly choking on the syllable as the full meaning behind his words crashed into her. 'No. You must be mistaken! There is! I know… There _has_ to be!'

'I am sorry,' he spoke gently, though his voice still managed to transcend her loud cries. 'I think it is time for you to go home, now.'

And just like that, he was gone. Gone was the circular white room. Gone was the door that led to the snowy summit of the mountain. Gone was the wind howling behind the closed door. Instead, she found herself standing in tall, lush grass, warm sunlight caressing her back. A bird's song filled the air, interrupted only by the sound of her own violent weeping. Looking up, she could just make out the start of the trail up the mountain through blurry eyes. Defeated, she crumbled to her knees, allowing her grief to take over as the reality set in.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: Here it is, at last, the final chapter of Bâhukhazâd. I hope you have all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing this story. I want to thank you all for sticking with me and supporting me in the writing process. I specifically want to thank all of you who left a review at sometime during the process, and want to thank _Tibblets_ for reviewing the previous chapter. **

**With nothing more to say, I will now leave you to reading. I would love to hear your thoughts, so don't be shy to let me know what you think. In addition, don't forget that while this is the last, real chapter, there will be an epilogue!**

* * *

 **Chapter thirty-two: The Giver of Fruits**

Many hours passed as she laid weeping in the tall grass, and when at last there were no more tears to shed and no more energy to spend, she fell into a deep sleep. It was light out when she awoke – still or again, she could not tell. Neither could she tell at first what had awoken her, for her lids were still heavy and her eyes still dry, when she was nudged in her side once more.

She shifted her head, revealing tall, pale legs standing next to her. Following them up, past the torso and up the neck, she found they belonged to a familiar white horse. It nudged her again, this time more impatiently, and she found her arm involuntarily moving up and twisting itself in the animal's mane. However, it was not for another five minutes, and another nudge, that she finally pulled herself off the ground and, after another brief pause, onto the horse's back.

At first she simply sat there, waiting for the world to stop spinning and to start making sense again. For a purpose to come to her. She waited a moment longer and, when neither came, finally flicked her reins to guide the horse back in the direction of the path. It would be a lie to say that the road felt longer in this direction, for in truth she did not feel it was longer, or shorter, or much of anything. A numbness had overcome her that had nothing to do with her long exposure to the cold, and that could not be so easily dispelled by the warm rays of sunlight. She did not see the trees around her, or the animals in the fields. In fact, it was only when she reached the intersection that she finally took notice of her surroundings. And the Elleth perched on the boulder in between two of the paths.

If she had been in any better shape, Ardhoniel would have marvelled at her reappearance – or had she simply never left at all? As it was, she merely blinked before taking a second look, only to find her still there, green eyes now meeting hers and a smile spread across her lips. 'Ah, you're back. I take it your meeting did not go well, then?' She did not wait for an answer – and Ardhoniel was glad for it, for she was not yet ready to recount the experience. 'I would not say no to some of that fruit, if you still got any to spare?'

She nodded, coming down from her mount and taking out the last of her fresh rations. The cold climate on the mountain had allowed them to remain unspoiled for longer than it usually would have, which was a small mercy in light of everything else. She wordlessly made her way over to the boulder, where she handed the Elleth one of her pieces of fruit before sitting down next to her. Quite in the same fashion as before, they ate in silence, and it was only after finishing her apple that the brown-haired Elleth spoke.

'So what will you do now?'

'I do not know…' Ardhoniel looked pensively at the crossroads, brows furrowing as she considered the question in earnest. Truly, she really did not have a lot of options. Now that she had spoken to Manwë, there was little to do but go home. 'Where does that road lead?' She motioned her head in the direction of the path she had not yet taken, if only to keep the realisation that her adventure was well and truly over from sinking in just that little bit longer.

'The south. And the west.'

'What's there?'

'A lot,' her green eyes wrinkled at the corners, 'You ask all the wrong questions, my dear. But I shall amuse you, just this once. Not all Valar choose to make their houses on mountain tops: to the south are the Pastures of Yavanna and the Woods of Orome. To the west, you will find the Halls of Mandos.'

'Mandos?' She looked up instinctively, the name resonating in her mind. The Halls of Mandos. The Gallery of Kings. Erebor. _Thorin_. It was a far stretch. And yet, it was her last hope. Her last chance. It was not even a conscious decision, but rather her desperate mind clamping on to the possibility, no matter how slim, that it may not be over yet. 'I have to go, I'm sorry.'

She shoved the last of the fruit in her mouth, before rearranging her bags and mounting. She waved the Elleth a hasty goodbye even whilst steering her horse in the direction of the southbound path – all the while trying not to think of what she would do if this turned out to be another dead end.

* * *

In her haste, Ardhoniel had not really considered the length of the journey ahead of her, and the state of her rations. Once she noticed the sad state of her food supplies, it was already morning again, and Valmar – and with it, all other chances of purchasing food – far behind her. She had tried to ration as well as she could, but without any knowledge of how long the journey would take, even that turned out to be not enough. Her food supplies ran out on the fourth day, her water – which she had luckily been able to refill at several occasions – on the sixth. There was a nagging voice in the back of her head that wondered how much longer it could be. And whether it was worth risking her life over.

On the morning of the seventh day, she reached the edge of the world. White cliffs marked the end of Valinor. High and sharp, and promising death to whoever was stupid enough to scale them, they stood like jagged teeth that tried eating the Encircling Sea. For a moment she had simply stopped and stared, fully aware of the utter nothing that lay in front of her. Then, she spotted a tiny island a little to the north.

Taller than it was wide, it lay floating near the coastline, as if it had once been connected to it and was not yet ready to let go – and it had been, before Námo had taken the stretch of land and had detached it from the rest of Valinor. A narrow bridge connected the island to the mainland.

Despite its seeming proximity, it took Ardhoniel the better half of the day to reach the bridge – only to find that the island was bigger than she had originally thought it was. Then she had taken her sword and bow, shouldering the quiver that Aglaron had given her, set her horse free and had made for the bridge on foot. And while the size of the island had been deceiving from a distance, the width of the bridge, unfortunately, had not. Barely a foot wide, it stretched over the chasm that lay between the cliffs and the island, the sea clashing violently against the rocks, the sound amplified by the strong western wind.

For once in her life, she forced herself to remain focused, to block out everything but the stone beneath her feet and her own, careful steps. And they were many, so many in fact that she lost count after the sevenhundreth, and yet she could not allow herself to get distracted for even a single moment. And when she finally reached the other side, night had fallen over the mainland and all she wanted was to sleep right then and there, but she could not. She took a deep breath, and continued forward.

The Halls of Mandos, from what she could see now, where far less like halls and more like caves, for the high walls of the fortress were really just an extension of the rocky foundation of the island. A little ways in front of her, a large, gaping hole marked the entrance, and she felt a shiver go down her spine as all that she could see inside was clouded in deep shadows. It was but a small walk to the entrance and far sooner than she would have liked she found herself in front of it. Not allowing herself a moment for the doubt to set in, she gripped her sword a little tighter instinctively and stepped into the darkness.  
At first she saw nothing, and she followed the walls with her free hand to keep moving forward. Then suddenly the room opened up, and moonlight illuminated it, and she found her eyes widening in surprise.

Although she could still not dispel the feeling of being in a cave – albeit an ornate one – the inside of the Halls was rather different than its outside. High and wide, it made her feel utterly small rather than suffocated. The walls rose up high next to her, so high that it almost seemed like they touched the moon that could be seen through many of the windows in the walls and roof. Natural pillars stood scattered across the halls, and somewhere near the back she thought she spotted a pool of still, clear water. Whereas the wind and sea had battled loudly and violently against the island outside, inside the Halls it was utterly, eerily silent. What was most interesting, however, were the large tapestries that hung down the tall walls, colourful and realistic – and more lifelike than even the most skilled weaver could ever hope to accomplish.

As she passed them, Ardhoniel found many of the scenes were familiar to her, not just because she had heard the stories before, but because she had actually seen them before, albeit in painted form. Her feet had started to take her down the room quite unconsciously, her eyes taking in each of the scenes in passing, until she found herself coming to a stop. Here was a scene she had not seen before, and yet she could only conclude that she knew it, too. Two small figures, each with a mop of curly hair, were beaten down on a steep mountain slope. Rivers of fiery lava streamed down the mountain at either side of them, and both looked stretched far beyond their limits, yet the look on their faces was not that of desperation.

She turned away from the painting, finding that while not filled with desperation, the look on the brown-haired Hobbit haunted her regardless with its familiarity. She had seen it often in the times that she had spent with Frodo. And even more often she had found it in the mirror.

To her surprise, she found that she was no longer alone. A figure had appeared in the entrance, dressed in travel garb, with their dark hair bound away and their pale face illuminated by moonlight. Even across the distance, she could see their green eyes shimmering like emeralds.

'You?' She found herself questioning – in her surprise rather forgetting all sense of decorum. 'You followed me here.'

'I did not,' the Elleth returned, as she began her approach. 'If you would have asked me at your departure what my destination was, I could have told you. Alas, once more you did not ask the right questions.'

'What does that mean?' She countered, eyes narrowing as she started to move on her own, grip on her sword once more tightening as she kept a sharp eye on the other.

She moved behind a pillar, and when she emerged from the other side, the Elleth was right in front of her. 'That I could have told you going to Illmarin would not help you any further on your quest.' Her face softened, and the smile appeared on her lips once more as she eyed the half-raised sword. 'I am not here to harm you, Ardhoniel of Imladris.'

'How did you know I should not go there? And how do you know my name?'

'Because I knew Manwë and Varda had nothing to do with the deal you were offered.'

'There was no deal.'

'Ah,' the Elleth sighed, shaking her head as one would to a child. Sheeting her sword, Ardhoniel crossed her arms in defiance at the gesture. 'Again with the wrong questions, my dear. You asked Manwë about his offer to you, and he, justly, replied that he never made you any.'

'I don't see the difference.'

The Elleth motioned her head, before starting down the hall in the direction of the small pool. When she was sure Ardhoniel had fallen in step with her, she started talking again. 'While Manwë is most powerful of the Ainur, he certainly has not the power to decide on such things as you were offered.

'But there are others who do,' she looked satisfied at the blonde's wide-eyed stare before continuing, 'I observed your life for many years, Ardhoniel of Imladris. With amusement, then with disapproval. And finally with pity. And I recognised in you and your love myself, and so I prayed to Eru Ilúvatar.'

The expression of the blonde Elleth beside her had hardly changed at all during her explanation, mind still struggling to catch up with what she was saying. 'I don't understand…'

They had come to a stop now, at the far side of the lake near a small door that blended into the rock face, explaining why she had not seen it before. 'I think you do,' the Elleth urged, though not unkindly.

'You pitied me and recognised yourself in me, and so you prayed to Eru to offer me a deal?' She stared at the door, studying the intricate designs that covered its dark wooden surface. In a way, they looked familiar to her, although she could not tell where she had seen them before. It mattered not at the moment, as her mind was grasping at straws. It made no sense, no sense at all. What did it matter that this strange female, no matter how impossible, claimed to have watched? What did it matter that she had prayed to the All High? Even though it was all that she had wished for for many years, even the most wishful part of her was forced to acknowledge that it was impossible. 'It doesn't matter. Although the sentiment is appreciated, it doesn't matter. It can't have mattered. He did not heed your prayers. He did not make me a deal – surely I would know if I had been visited by… Oh.' She fell silent, as things started to click at last. 'The dream.'

The Elleth nodded, 'Behind this door are the Halls that were set aside for the Dwarves. You can pass through, but if you do you cannot come back. If you pass through this door, you forfeit your immortality and your place in Valinor – and any chance to ever see your family again.

'Are you sure that is what you want?'

'I'm sure,' she replied vehemently, not missing a beat.

'Then go, Ardhoniel of Imladris.'

She nodded, more to herself than to the Elleth beside her. She had just put her hand on the brass doorknob, ready to turn it, when she realised something, and she turned back to the Elleth, eyebrows furrowed. 'Who are you?'

A broad smile overtook the female, her green eyes twinkling in the moonlight, 'A good question at last!

'I suppose in a way we are distant relatives,' she tapped her chin for a moment, then shook her head, 'No, since you finally asked the right question, I will also grace you with the right answer.' She offered the other Elleth another mischievous smile, before suddenly she was there no more at all. In her stead stood a tall, willowy figure, easily three foot taller than herself. She was dressed in a pale pink robe, and a crown of leaves and berries lay on top of her head. While her wavy hair was brown and her eyes green like the Elleth's, there was little else that convinced Ardhoniel that this was indeed the same female as she had spoken to before. Her skin was fair and her features refined. Her lips were pink and full, and it was only when she smiled again that Ardhoniel knew for certain that she was the same female as before. The tall woman bowed her head, 'My name is Yavanna, Giver of Fruits, Queen of the Earth, and wife to Aulë the Smith, father of the Dwarves.'

'You… you are one of the Valar?' Ardhoniel said in disbelief, eyes wide as she took in the true form of the rather strange female she'd met on the road. 'I… how… why?'

'I see we are back to the wrong questions again, for those are two questions you know the answer to, child. I told you my name and my motivation to help you. I think it is now time for you to go, for we have dwelt in this place of passing long enough without passing.'

Ardhoniel opened her mouth to say something in return, but found no words to express her gratitude at the Vala. And so, she merely bowed her head, hoping she would understand, and – with a deep breath – opened the door.

* * *

The room she stepped into was not at all what she had expected. In fact, it was not a room at all, but rather a corridor, scarce in light and void of any other living creatures. It seemed she found herself at the dead end of the hallway, with only one path leading away from her position. Even so, she could not help wonder if this was even the right place, for it did not at all resemble the grand hall she had met Thorin in previously. Turning around, however, she found the door had somehow fallen closed, and when she tried the handle it would not budge.

She turned back around, remembering the Vala's words, and steeled herself; there was no way back. Now that her eyes had gotten somewhat accustomed to the dim lighting, the Elleth found that the architecture of the hallway reminded her vaguely of Erebor – which, being the only Dwarven kingdom she had visited – did not say much. Even so, it gave her the slightest bit of hope that she at least was in the right place. Realising there was little else to do, she started walking.

And so she did for what seemed like ages, following the lone corridor as it twisted and turned, until at last it opened up into a larger room. It seemed like a market place of sorts, with little stalls lining the walls of the rectangular room, a stream of potential buyers passing by the wares in a practiced fashion. What was most curious to Ardhoniel, however, was that all of them were Dwarves.

Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of Dwarves moved around the room, stopping at stalls to haggle at prices or to hurl insults at the merchants when they were not willing to lower their prices. While truly she should not have been so surprised, she found herself nevertheless unprepared to see so many Dwarves in one place. So much so, that she completely missed when they had all stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at the sole Elf in the room.

'I…' she started, feeling nervous under the heavy weight of their confused – and, dare she say, in some cases hostile – gazes. 'I am looking for Thorin Oakenshield. Could anyone tell me where I may find him?'

An uncomfortable silence followed her words, stretching from one wall to the opposite and seemingly suffocating her in its heaviness. Perhaps she had made a mistake, she found herself thinking fleetingly. 'Thorin Oakenshield,' she repeated fruitlessly, hoping that perhaps their lack of response was a result of an inability to respond – perhaps due to mishearing her the first time? – rather than an unwillingness to.

A whispering now started to rise up from the crowd as Dwarves started speaking to their neighbours in low tones in a guttural language that she could not understand. Some of them pointed at her during their hushed speech, and she noticed with a certain discomfort that they were coming closer to her, the entire crowd advancing with furrowed brows and expressions that did not appear to her as being of goodwill.

'Ardhoniel!'

She looked up at the sound of her name, so surprised that she even missed how the Dwarves responded as well, coming to a stop as they faced the newcomer. She did not spot him immediately, for he stood at the far entrance to the marketplace, and with his dark hair he blended in rather well with the rest of the crowd. Ironically, it was perhaps his superior height – at least for a Dwarf – that made her spot him at all.

'Kíli!' She sprang forward, finding that the crowd parted for her as she passed them, although the looks she got were still less than amiable. At the moment, however, she could not care less, and soon she found herself face to face with the young Durin. Before she well knew it, she had thrown her arms around him, pulling him against her with a fierceness that even she had not expected. It had been many years since she had last seen him – and he certainly looked a lot better now than last time, even if he was…

'What happened?' She asked, suddenly realising what his being here meant.

'Battle of Dale,' he shrugged, the carelessness in which he answered bringing her back to the time of their Quest – and she nearly hugged him again. Before she could give in to that urge, though, his expression grew uncharacteristically serious, 'What are you doing here, though? I thought these halls were specifically set aside for Dwarves?'

'They are, I…' she stopped, suddenly noticing that the market space was still utterly quiet, the present Dwarves apparently choosing to listen in on their conversation rather than go back to their daily business. 'Can we discuss this in private?'

Kíli nodded, taking her arm as he guided her through the crowd towards the arch through which he'd come. They crossed another few corridors – all filled with Dwarrow giving them strange looks – before the crowd started to thin and they could speak rather undisturbedly. 'You were saying?'

'Oh, well. It is a rather long story I am afraid, but it comes down to the fact that I was granted entrance into these halls by Eru.'

If he was surprised by this, he did not show it. Instead, the youthful Dwarf chuckled good-naturedly, 'You blasted tree-huggers always get what you want, don't you?'

She shrugged, finding his good mood was enough for her to temporarily forget her exhaustion. 'What can I say?' Then, remembering her purpose, she turned to him, taking his arm so that he turned to look her in the eye. 'Kíli, I need to find Thorin.'

'So I gathered from your shouting,' he replied, shaking his head, the smile once more making its way on his face, 'I thought you Elves were supposed to be all refined and such.' They suddenly came to a stop, and she forgot to reply to his jab. She stared at the door, then turned to the Dwarf beside her with a questioning look.

He motioned at the door, before at last stepping forward and knocking on the door twice.

Despite the years of longing, she was utterly unprepared for the gruff voice that answered, saying he did not have time for visitors at the moment. When Kíli revealed that it was him, the Dwarf behind the door relented, saying he could come in.

Dazed as she was, Ardhoniel frowned when the young Dwarf did not. She stared at the door, expecting him to open it at any time, when at last a sigh came from behind her, then two rough hands pushed her forward. 'I will come collect you two for dinner,' he said lowly, before she could hear his footsteps moving past the door.

'Kíli? What is taking you so long? If this is another of your pranks, I swear –'

She had pushed the door open at last, heart beating so loud that she could swear the walls were vibrating to the rhythm. And then the door swung open far enough to reveal a modest antechamber, a desk set near the far wall, behind which was stood a very familiar and annoyed-looking Dwarf.

His eyes widened as they drank her in, disbelief replacing the previous annoyance on his face. For a moment, both of them just stood there, staring at the other as if expecting them to disappear if they but blinked their eyes. In that moment, time was frozen, as Ardhoniel took in the features that she knew so well. He was exactly like she remembered, and yet it felt as if she was seeing hm for the first time. Or maybe the last, for she dared not tear her eyes away from him, fearing their time together being but a figment of her imagination.

Unconsciously, she had started to take a few steps into the room, the door having fallen closed behind her without either of them noticing. Likewise, he had moved out from behind the desk, and now they stood opposite one another, barely a feet separating them, and she studied the details of his face that she never had the chance to before. The small lines near his eyes, the silver that streaked not only his hair but also his beard.

'You came.'

'I did,' she replied, equally breathlessly. 'Far too late.'

He gently took her hand in his rougher ones, eyes trained on the pale skin as he said, 'After you left, I didn't think you'd come back.'

'I'm sorry, there was something I had to do first.' Her mind flashed back to the dark hours she had spent in Mordor's prison, the wounds on her body seemingly starting to tear up just from the memory. It was all in the past now. She smiled, even as tears had started gathering in the corners of her eyes, 'I'm here now.'

'You are.'

'And I will stay here. With you.' She reached up her free hand, easily finding the braid that lay at the nape of her neck and pulling it to the front. She noticed a small smile lifting the corners of his lips when his eyes found the silver bead at the end. 'Forever, _amrâlimê_ ,' she said, the word only sounding a little strange coming from her tongue. She could not thank Gimli enough for teaching her the meaning, as well as the correct pronunciation.

'Forever.'

* * *

Amrâlimê ~ My love (lit. love of mine)


	33. Epilogue

**Author's Note: Welcome back dear readers to the final chapter of this story. I hope you have all enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. It definitely has been a blast for me, exploring the world of Tolkien once more, and I am truly proud of what this story has become - a worthy sequel to Bâhukhazâd. In any case, I want to thank you all once again for all the support, for reading, and for sticking with me to the end.**

 **I want to thank _Laura201112_ , _Rogue's Queen_ , and _Tibblets_ (I would love to hear your thoughts in a more elaborate way; please feel free to PM me!) for reviewing the previous chapter, and all the others who have reviewed this story along the way. This one is for you guys. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **E** **pilogue**

'It is an honour to have you with us here at last, Lady Sefleth,' Faramir spoke earnestly, as a servant bowed in to fill up his wine. The Rohirric Woman had only arrived late that afternoon, and had hardly had any time to wash up before being called down for dinner. Then again, Faramir and his wife cared little for formal etiquette, and much preferred to hear whatever the young Woman had to say now than after she'd had a warm bath and a good night's rest.

'And yet you are but alone,' Éowyn remarked, picking up on the same fact that had caught his eye. 'Do not mistake my curiosity for ungratefulness, my friend, but when you wrote to me I had hoped that lady Ardhoniel would join you on your journey here.'

Sefleth did not respond immediately, instead taking a long drink from her own wine before relaying the inevitable news. In truth, she had carefully avoided the topic of the Elven lady's departure into the West in her letter. It was a delicate matter, and no matter how hard she had tried, she had been unable to bring it under words that sounded… well, a little bit less painful than the truth. 'She sailed to the Undying Lands,' she said at last, finding that despite the many hours she had pondered on the matter during her journey to Gondor, more diplomatic words yet escaped her.

'She's gone?'

Sefleth nodded to her kinswoman. Lowering her gaze, she focused on pushing around the boiled potatoes on her plate, so as to not have to meet the questioning gaze of the Lady. Even so, she felt it. 'You know how she was, Éowyn. She never healed from… Not completely at least.'

'I know.'

'We can only hope she's happier there than she was here.'

From the corner of her eye, she could see Faramir's hand closing over Éowyn's pale white one, 'I am sure she is.'

After that, conversation had quickly turned to lighter, easier topics. The couple told her of recent political changes in Gondor and news from Rohan, and in return asked her about whatever she knew of the situation on the other side of the Misty Mountains. Then they discussed at length the celebratory event that was coming up, marking the three-year anniversary of the destruction of the One Ring and the ending of the reign of Sauron. This year the event was to take place in Ithilien, and many of the preparations were already underway. As they discussed the many festivities that would take place, Sefleth couldn't help but note once more the absence of Lord Boromir, both at the table and in the planned festivities.

'… feast. Will you not stay for the event, Sefleth, or are you in such a hurry to leave this place that you cannot spare a few days with a friend?'

One of the corners of her mouth pulled up at the Lady's jab, and she took another drink from her wine – was it still the first cup or already the second? She could not tell – before speaking, 'I would not mind staying here as your guest a little longer, my friend, but I must ask: where is Lord Boromir and will he be present for the event?'

A silence fell over their table, and Sefleth noticed in surprise that both Lord and Lady were looking tense. This time it was Éowyn who offered her husband some comfort by means of a smile, before turning to her. 'Lord Boromir is not here, I am afraid, nor has he been these past years.'

'Is he dead?'

'No! No,' she said in a softer tone, 'He is simply… restless. He's been leading many of the efforts to free Gondor's lands from lingering Southrons. Last we heard, they are now just north of Dol Amroth.'

'Will he return for the anniversary event?'

'I would not count on it. Nor do I,' Faramir said, honestly, the pain evident in his voice even as he tried to mask it with a polite smile. 'He didn't attend the last two.'

Sefleth nodded, heaving an inward sigh as she knew what to do. 'Then I am afraid I must decline your offer to stay for the revels, pleasant though it sounds. While certainly not the sole reason for journeying here, part of the reason was to find Lord Boromir and ensure his well-being. If he will not come here, then I shall have to seek him out.'

* * *

Under Éowyn's unrelenting argumentations, discussions, and even pouting, she had eventually agreed to stay several more days with them in Emyn Arnen. Truly, she did not mind all that much, for the land, despite its close proximity to the lands of Mordor, was fair and green. Even so, Sefleth knew that her time there could only be limited, and on the evening of the third night she announced her departure. On the fourth, she rode to Edhellond.

The journey took her through most of Gondor, past the sea, and eventually into the Bay of Belfalas. There she stayed for a day, in the city of Dol Amroth, before riding the final miles to the Elven haven in the north – but not before being warned by the innkeeper that her destination was one of the few places still beset by Corsairs. At least she was going in the right direction…

The Gondorian camp was not hard to find once she left the northern road, for it was perched on a cliff just above the haven itself. Or what was left of it, in any case; much of the original buildings lay in ruin, the crude tents put up by the Corsairs almost an improvement on the general state of decline. Clearly whatever years of prosperity the haven had known, they were long past.

Upon her entry of the camp she was immediately confronted by two Men in Gondorian armour, but they were quick to step down once she mentioned the name of their Captain – albeit with a suspicious expression. She nodded her thanks to them, before guiding Nimloth in the direction of the furthest campfire.

She recognised him by his stooped shoulders and impossible stillness, even before she could see his face. Clearing her throat, he visibly jumped and turned to her with an annoyed expression.

'Lady Sefleth?' He questioned in surprise, though not necessarily the happy kind.

'Lord Boromir,' she nodded her head at him, letting go of the reins of Nimloth and approaching the fire, 'Do you mind if I sit?' She motioned at the empty log across from him.

'Of course, please.'

Despite the verbal agreement, his voice was flat, and expressed little desire on his side for a conversation. A silence – not completely unexpected – fell over them, for despite the polite conversation they had little to say to one another. That is, apart from the things that needed to be said, but felt too heavy to unload just now. In the silence, Sefleth took to inconspicuously studying the Man opposite from her.

Time had healed many of the wounds that had littered his body last time she'd seen him, the scars they had inevitably left not visible in the warm light of the flames. His hair looked a little longer – though not necessarily fashionably so – and his beard had gotten fuller, stubble peppering most of his cheeks and upper lip. The one thing that hadn't changed, it seemed, was the haunted look in his eyes.

When she found those eyes suddenly meeting hers, she quickly averted her gaze to the fire. 'I heard you've kept busy.'

He grunted in what could be interpreted as confirmation. Or a scoff. 'Why are you here, Lady Sefleth?'

'I travelled to Emyn Arnen and I met with your brother and sister-in-law. I asked about your whereabouts and they told me you were here, freeing the land. I followed their general directions and the more specific ones I got in Dol Amroth, and alas, here I am.'

She could practically feel her person being scorched by the irritated glance he directed at her. 'And why were you interested in my "whereabouts", Lady Sefleth? I am certainly not aware of any war that I can help you join behind your King's back.'

'I don't need your help; if anything, y…' she bit her lip, just before the venomous words could pour out. _If anything, you need mine_. She took a deep breath, forcing her own irritation to the background. 'I merely wanted to see how you were faring after the war.'

'She sent you?'

'She… I… what?'

'You are riding her horse,' Boromir said calmly, though his posture belied that calmness. 'So I take it she's gone.'

Sefleth opened her mouth, lies ready on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she found her mouth go dry, the words disintegrating on her tongue, and she was left to stare dumbly at him for a long time. It was only now that she realised that his words had not been a question. At last, she nodded, 'Ardhoniel sailed into the West with several of her kin. She asked me… she asked me to check whether you were well.' Or even alive.

The words were met with the expected indignation, but it lasted much shorter than she had thought, before disappearing behind an emotionless mask once more. 'I see.'

'And are you?'

'Quite well, as you can see.'

Thinking it unwise to contest his statement, Sefleth fell silent again, but felt unable to leave like that. Inwardly, she cursed the late Elven lady. She had done what Ardhoniel had wanted, hadn't she? She had come here, she had seen him, and he was alive. Was that not enough?

Then why did she feel so compelled to stay and to somehow, someway try to make it better?

She sighed again, her wandering eyes finding Nimloth munching on some grass just outside the camp circle. 'She fought me nail and tooth all the way to Gondor,' she found herself saying, nodding in the direction of the mount.

The change in topic seemed to have caught Boromir off guard, and he actually turned to her with a look that did not contain any annoyance this time. Then he hummed, 'She's not very friendly to people. I never had any issues riding her myself, but she would snap at Men if they came but a little bit too close.'

'So I noticed,' Sefleth mumbled, absent-mindedly rubbing her left hand which had gotten bitten on multiple occasions. 'In a way, I think it's a good thing that once I return to Rohan I will no longer be riding her as much, I suppose.' From the corner of her eye, she noticed the Gondorian had already lost interest in the conversation again, that empty look overtaking his face – and she cursed herself as her heart bled for him. She had kept her promise. She had checked up on him. And he was well; if not emotionally, at least physically. But his happiness was not her job – nor her business.

And yet, she found herself starting to wonder, what was really waiting for her back home? Helping out at the farm, helping raise her siblings' children as her own life passed her by. She would be going back to normal life, back to routine, and the adventures that she had been a part of would fade into distant memory, until it would seem like something that had happened in another life time, to another person. _That_ was what was waiting for her. A life of normality. Of contentment. And it would still be waiting for her in one year, or two, or even ten.

'I don't think Nimloth would like very much to be a farm animal, however, and I would loathe to let her go free after being gifted her.' She said thoughtfully, pretending like she was still considering the dilemma whilst in fact she already knew the solution. For good measure, she tapped a finger to her chin. 'But since she likes you so well, I could of course lend her to you. That way all of us win: you have a strong, intelligent horse, and she a place to make herself useful.'

'And you?' He inquired, tone dripping with suspicion.

'Well, obviously I would need to keep an eye on her, make sure you're not pawning her off to some local farmer.' She noticed his gaze had darkened once more, and she quickly continued. 'So I think it's best if I stick around, help you guys with odd jobs, maybe do a little fighting, y…-'

'Definitely not.'

She huffed, 'I'm sure you need more Men; I hardly imagine there are that many Men who wish to risk their lives in times of peace. I can be of use!'

'I said no.'

'But…' She fell quiet, knowing that she would not win him over with rational argumentation. Then she remembered what had convinced him to help her last time, and she bowed closer, allowing the fire to illuminate her face. 'Look, there's nothing for me back at Rohan. Sure I can go back, help my siblings with their lives, but the truth is that I have nothing waiting for me. No husband, no children. Nothing. But there is one thing that I do have. Something that I know.

'I was raised with a sword in my hand, dreaming of exciting adventures in far-off places. While I now know not all adventures are of the good kind, it does not change the fact that I know nothing else.'

She allowed the truthful statement to hang in the air, knowing that it would not help her case to embellish it with fancy words or mawkish sentiments. From the corner of her eye, Sefleth then eyed him inconspicuously, noticing with satisfaction that at least he had not turned her down immediately this time. Not sentiment, but recognition, it seemed, was the key to thawing this stoic man. How interesting.

It was not for a very long time that he spoke, and when he did, the tone of his voice suggested that he did so with the utmost reluctance. 'Very well. You may stay, as long as you do not hinder us.' He got up from his place at the fire, 'So I suggest you stay out of my Men's way, Lady Sefleth – and especially out of mine.'

As he turned to walk away, she couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips. Moody, with a bite that would cause even the toughest Man to shrink in on himself, but with a good heart. Lord Boromir certainly was an interesting Man. She could only imagine this would be quite the adventure, indeed.


End file.
